bare feet on a
cold bathroom floor or maybe
it was the kitchen
or both

I don't remember exactly my
cheeks were flushed
and you were sort of dancing

Bare ankles and boxers
from the night before
I haven’t brushed my teeth
we ate eggs and toast and you laid
under my armpit i didn’t
have a shirt on

My jewelry is crooked
from pressing my body against yours
my hair is falling out of a knot

Think of the same woman
dancing in the verses above
staring at a windshield
not out of it or through it
but at the rain stained glass

There weren’t clouds in sight
she feels empty
with no words, it’s easier that way

I’d give you my skin
to relieve what your nerves
did to yours
from what others have said or never did
but i don’t think you need it


I hope your rain days
feel the same as summer
mornings and winter afternoons
because mine do

I think you were never not here
your wash rag hangs next to
mine now
in the shower in your favorite color

We have to push my cat
away from scratching us
when we’re kissing in bed

And i’ll keep waking up
early
just for five minutes of
holding you consciously
I’m glued

And because of that
I’ll be late to work
and you’ll bring me my medicine
Because i forgot again

And to make sure
i ate that day
you’ll bring me toast

i cry after i *** now
and when i smell make up wipes
or look through your likes

someone tried to give me
advice
the other day

they said
i should find a new hobby
something that i didn’t do before
or during you

so i started planting flowers
and i find it very interesting to watch them grow
i sit outside and cry next to the ones that don’t

i bury fallen petals into soil
to decompose and seep
into the roots to replenish others

i find myself posting their colors
and their growth
online
for everyone to see

including you
i always check if you’ve seen
i guess that defeats the purpose of my hobby

it brushes against bones
and seeps into i
suddenly i am envisioning
sweaty hands shaking at fabric seams
of jeans worn thrice that week
they are my hands now
and the lips ask that the hands are okay
they are
they move on and
the body comes with
hoping to come
the fingers try on their own to undo buttons
at the waist
the worn come down over
slightly damp legs and bruised knees
that show hairs that the body would prefer not to
show but
i don’t mind
the lips are dry now
as they rub against skin
and the hands are wet as they do the same
but elsewhere
teeth grip tight to hold in air
and sound
and hands press against the wall
to be steady
and they slide down with a breath of relief
and release

afterwards
my hands cover my own skin
like a mask

cheeks are red with sweat and
embarrassment
vulnerability

everything is slower now
you laugh and ask if I’m okay
i am

She was captivating.
She forced you to reconcile
with your name
and the word queer
together for the first time.

It was new and you
only spoke it into existence
for her.
A vulnerability impossible to escape,
but you weren't worried.

She had pretty teeth
and thick eyebrows.
You felt an insurmountable
amount of love for her in a month,
than you had felt for any boy ever.

You weren't worried
until you were.
Women are gentile and kind.
They are caring and safe.
Until they're not.

You are fifteen.
Living behind closet doors,
thick enough to mask your queerness.
It squeaks when it opens,
you prefer it closed.

Your father explained the word, "disown"
with examples.
"Like, if you're a **** you have to move out."
She used that as a stick
to beat you with.

You cry, knees to chest in the shower.
She's told everyone,
while she manipulates and forces
you to believe you're guilty
of being embarrassed of her.

So you begin beating
on the closet doors,
every beating.
No one can hear your screams.
Part of you still doesn't want them to.

You could try calling the police,
but who would believe
a woman is beating another woman.
Besides,
there's no service in this closet.

You learn about domestic violence
from your parents.
They say they'd protect you.
But if they knew
they'd beat you back into silence.

If a tree
collapses in the middle of the forest
with bruises from someone
that isn't a husband,
or a boyfriend,
or a man at all,
Is she still a victim?
is the collision enough
to break down a closet door?

I clean my room really nice
and fill it with these fake flowers
I light the candles
for a second I think it helps with my mental health
but subconsciously I know
I'm doing it hoping someone will notice the time I've put into it
or that there will even be someone in my room at all to notice
just someone to **** me
I'm so tired of myself
I blame it on everyone else
I say I'm so sick of this
But I'm sick
There's something wrong with me
And that's why no one is interested
I leave the blinds wide open
I always have
no one cares about the flowers in my room

No one even knows what my room looks like
let alone the flowers

when I came back to Ohio
I was just ready to get away from the heat
I was ready to lose myself in different bodies
I was ready to see things familiar to me
but the only thing waiting for me
was unfamiliar feelings
and a strange face
I say strange in the most beautiful way possible
and I never slept around
my mind melted from Alabama heat
quickly cooled and hardened again
It was my first week back but
from then on I knew
I stood no chance
it would engulf me as swift and brute as melting rock

You're still in everything I do but
you keep washing my words off your skin
like a stain on your favorite shirt

I can't do anything without keeping you in mind
I can't do anything
I wonder when I will start doing things again without them in someway being for you


But you are not

Your body rests in my head
While you rest your head on her body
She leaves scratches on your back and skin where my words only laid briefly