A strange man in my boyfriend’s pub approached and chose to name me Satan.

Pitcher gripped, he leaned on our booth’s edge for stability sense,
radiating the kind of confidence that ignites forests with rage-inspired violence.
He practically whipped a ruler out between our plates to show us he could.

“Who do you ladies know here?” he beamed.

And unbecoming words scratched at my throat,
tempted to trickle out amidst the limited air space between his face and my fist,
he made eyes at the best friend of “Satan.”

“I don’t care what she thinks of me, only you,” he added as if he’d impress.

I smiled with glaring irises that left no secrets
and with his Bud Light psychology degree,
he verbally diagnosed me with multiple personalities.

“You’ve got this soft cute angel-like exterior, but…”

We didn’t bother listening for his name, but questioned his choice for mine.
And his response warranted the bad taste his presence gave the air.

“…but behind closed doors I’m sure it’s some 50 shades of gray ****…”

Our jaws forgot their places as disgusted awe entered our eyes.
He continued.

“You like it rough and ***** with whips and toys and…”

Satan’s best friend could only tolerate this misogynistic man for so long,
she answered his initial question with warranted glare,

“Her boyfriend owns the place.”

His head cocked with such quick motion,
I feared the devilish smile that painted his face red.

“Alexis?!”

“Alex.”  I retorted.

“Oh man!  This is going to be fun,” he cackled rusty nails up his throat,
unrequitedly cozying himself up next to me.

His arm wrapped my shoulder like a belt around my neck, as I struggled to hug the wall.

Shouting his interpretation of Alex’s name toward the kitchen,
a confused face peered from around the ovens and made its way to our booth.

Words left the uncensored man’s mouth and Alex immediately followed suit back to his work,
I couldn’t blame him.

I wanted to slip through the cracks of the body-wall-booth box I’d been trapped in.

I felt trapped in his quicksand sea of word *****

the word “******” fell from his mouth like glass shards to the womb, it’s hard to stomach him.

I wanted to hold the hand of the young boy with Down syndrome in the booth behind me
and tell him he’s worth so much more than the searing air this man fire-breathes into his ears.

I wanted to tell him I’d defend his value in a fist fight to end the word without second thought,
That he could defend himself and I didn’t doubt that.

I wanted to tell him, the man is only lucky he’s a patron who spends so much he’s nearly always cut off,
but that I find greater value in people than money, and he’s worth all the oceans over a single grain of sand,
that he shouldn’t let him make him feel like anything less,
and I wouldn’t either.

I met you, my voice not my own,
with introduction forced upon us and
you spun circles around me as I watched in awe from awkward footing.

You asked me to dance.
In a sincere, old-fashioned ‘I actually just want to dance with you’ way
that felt foreign but wanted so bad to be familiar.

Cautiously taking my hand you spun me into your circle and
I haven’t wanted to stop spinning since.
Something about your smile feels like home.

It made me forget the clock and other faces –
hands stood still as yours held mine

your eyes held me.
And Closing Time rang through the emptying bar’s air
because our conversation missed its cue by too many minutes.

The alcohol mirage faded as the lights began to show face
and it dawned on me I wasn’t dreaming.
Though it still didn’t seem so in the morning.

Lovers like you don’t just walk into my life.

I tried to piece together the puzzle fragments of your face
from dimming memories of the night past,
desperately wanting to remember the man who made me forget.  

But I couldn’t forget that initial feeling,
nor shake the connection that just kind of clicked when I looked into your eyes,
the moment I found myself in the crease of your smile.

I close my eyes
and still feel your hands
in an empty room.

It was over for me when we woke up –
like an archipelago separated our bodies, intertwined in sheets
of your lies, I no longer recognized you.

On our first date, you snuck me onto a roof and made me feel alive (/again/) –
as if I were breathing in your beauty with every step we took under the stars’ eyes,
you were new.

And you walked a tightrope too scared to reach for my hand – emotionally handicapped –  
nervous smiles danced in our irises as goodbye left our lips,
I was falling.

But I think you tripped.

Even as confessions slipped out of your mouth as fast as (/gin, fireball, whiskey/) alcohol went in,
I held you as you sleep talked.

I’m not supposed to know.
When I said yes to you, I said no to him, and you said yes to her.

My name is not “Elaine.”

Now the hairs on your arm touch my chest from islands away, so I don’t feel
you say, “There aren’t enough benefits” for you.

I already know.

The last three nights unintentionally together and
I’m more of a burden than a good time –

Because once the words “I’m okay with you hooking up with other guys,” entered the air
my feelings for you swam the other direction, but my body couldn’t yet commit.

My eyes stayed present last night just long enough to see you,
but failed us the moment they watched you leave the room.

Three am on a Wednesday and your genitals are searching for an apology?

I’d already met dawn enough for this week.

The words, “I went to play video games till 5 because you fell asleep,”
dropped from your lips like a 12-year-old boy learning what puberty is.

I apologize.

Immaturity emanates from your sense of entitlement
as if you have some title to my body because you’ve had it before.
I do not owe you.

And what graces your lips makes me wonder if I ever knew you.  Or him.
Or if either even existed.

It’s hard to believe such polar opposites of the same person could be anything beyond fragmented figments of a hopeless romantic’s mind.

But I’ve always thought dreams could translate to nightmares if the right words were said.
I guess you found those words.

Because I’m ready to wake up
and even sooner forget.

The hairs on his chest form a heart
just below his throat;
my fingertips tenderly trace its edge beside my faint breath.

Sensitive,
his back arcs as a gentle smile meets with mine.

“I only let people I really like see it,” he whispers softly,
placing his ear against my chest,
tapping the beat upon my cheek.

When we were young – and I was ignorant,
we said where we placed our fingers would be home.
One twirl of the world, and we’d be in Brazil by March.

I like to think my sporadic landings were conscious decisions.
As though needing help was the plan –
and church pews offered themselves to sleep –
because it was His plan.

As if the faded pastel colors of a curved world
couldn’t house me,
so sent me searching other homes for a fit.

I like to think it resembled that game when we were kids.

But I have visited every place offered – briefly –
like setting my finger in every state
momentarily on a map.

And still, as I lie curled up in the old elementary school slide,
I have never found home.

meeting you was drowning without water, i didn’t know i was already dead

my body was stronger before my tongue tasted your name
and kissing you was like cliff diving to meet cement

your fingerprints left bruises without a warranty, i can no longer find my skin
somewhere between lost and found, your hands are ghosts around my throat
i choke on my own steps

you stain the bathroom tile like i’ve had too much to drink
loving you was like eating a cereal box of sea glass, and still searching for the prize at the bottom
my fingertips bleed broken promises

sometimes i sleep on the couch to avoid the absence of your shadow in my sheets
my sheets still ask about you
so do my parents

i rehearse words you’ll never hear
my insecurities crawl out of your one-word responses and tell me i’m not worth more

for your love of multiples, i could have been anyone
your hands carry the baggage of “ew she’s my best friend”
i’ve lost count of all the ‘shes’

you were not searching for my heartbeat when your hands groped my chest
i’ve had trouble finding my pulse lately

i need a receipt for our memories but they’re stuck to me like a shirt i can’t get over my shoulders
i can’t get over your smile –

the way the corners curled like bare willow branches dancing in the wind to our song
it was running your parseltongue through my veins, and i’d run out the high for days
i think i’m still running, but my feet are stuck in the same **** city we met

your face is plastered post-it notes on all the places we had our firsts as if i need reminders you used to look in my eyes and mean it

i visit museums to remind myself beautiful things have history too

no one ever tells you that goodbye tastes like empty air, tastes like looking in the mirror and not being able to swallow yourself

i bear the scars of your touch, poetry scratched into my skin like tattoos

i remember the first time you hit me
your palm crashed my cheek like a chance seismic stamp and i liked it

you told me, “run while you can i’m dangerous,”
but i stuck around to be buried in the dirt of the grave you dug me with “hello”

sometimes i’m convinced we only hug so you can check my hands for a shovel