I remember the days of raisin boxes and paperbacks,
when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be climbing barefoot up a mound of dirt in the rain because you wanted a friend.
I couldn’t watch movies, talk about cigarettes, or listen to operas,
but I was all right when I saw my mother pouring out my father’s bottles into the bushes.
I looked at the round tummy in the mirror and wondered if it was okay.
It wasn’t. I was eleven years old when I learned how to **** it in.

-

The first came in middle school. I had a dream that I kissed a boy while on an exercise machine.
It was real life when he took my hand in the backseat of his mother’s SUV. I closed my bedroom door and danced.
I still think of him when I hear that stupid song.

The second time, I was fourteen. I met a different boy who peeled away my skin as if he were unwrapping a Christmas present.
And the present? Just another pair of socks. Throw them in the drawer with the others. Shut it tight.
I’m still missing a lot of skin.

And then, there is you.
You know the story. Five, four, three, two, one, happy new year. I kissed you.
Remember when you noticed my wrists? Remember when you didn’t believe my excuses? Remember afterwards, when you pretended to forget all about it because you were scared, scared of the kinds of girls who hid secrets under their sleeves?
I went to all of your basketball games. I hate basketball. We watched movies that you projected onto your basement wall. Your attempts to disguise your impatience as admiration were poorly executed.
Maybe our first kiss shouldn’t have occurred in a count-down. It made everything else that happened feel that much more inevitable.

-

I take stock of myself. Three hearts, like an octopus, and too much blood. I am saving it, I am saving it for the person who offers me something other than the dusty space under the bed.
I never want to be like my mother, and there is a certain kind of power in this. The power of - of what, turning inward?
I am learning. I am learning to stop looking behind me in fear of pursuit. Let them come and let them drape me in meaningless velvet. I will not be deterred.
Look for me, up in the constellations. I am a passing comet; it’s impossible to predict if I am destined for destruction or for greatness.

I’ll wait at the sunset for the sound of your voice.

I’d kiss you until you forgot what state either of us were from,* the boy mumbles under his breath. I tell him to shut up and down the poison. He picks up the glass and drinks, willingly, clutching the cup like a tether in a swirling sea, the unflinching beacons of his eyes relentlessly searching for something more, a girl made of mirrors, someone who lives behind the iron gates.

Patience. Sit and listen. Close your eyes when you are on the phone and picture him lying next to you, a body, warm breath on your cheek. Picture him turning you over and pressing his lips into that place on your neck that drives you wild. Then see yourself throwing poems at your mirror and watching the glass fall over him like rain. You always manage to **** it up, anyway. Maybe you should go without mirrors for a time, but how?

The boy is banging on the iron gates and you’re screaming up at the sky but it’s not good enough. All the banging in the world won’t encourage his entrance. All it will do is cause you to curl up in the furthest corner of your soul and wait for the noise to stop, because it always does.

He sits you down and whispers corny poems into your ear and you don’t know what to believe or why you feel the way you do. You only know the feeling of the rubber band inside you, and you know he’s going to push you too far and you’ll either break in half or retreat into yourself, because at one time, somebody made you elastic and that is the only thing you know.

Fall in love, fallen love, is there any middle ground? Does it always have to be this way? I thought you were different.

You said kiss me. Kiss me because I’m home alone and there is room in my bed. Kiss me because you’re the only one left. Kiss me because you have to. Kiss me because I couldn’t get her to do it, and God you look nice tonight.

I kept turning my face away and it wasn’t good enough. I kept blowing a whistle and waiting for someone to dive into the water, but nobody could swim, nobody knew how. I want penance. You want baptism. We all just want to be saved.

Look at me. Have you ever seen me, open and bruised? I am full of open wounds. All I wanted was a little affection. I just wanted you to hold me. That’s it. I didn’t want to be your goddess, I didn’t want to be part of your religion. I wanted to be part of my own.

I wanted penance but you spit into my cupped hands. You wanted baptism and so you are wringing the holy water out of me, squeezing and pulling. We all just want to be saved.