Your blood is the same as his, but the skin
on your cheeks could never compare. The dirt
underneath your fingernails will always be cleaner
than the dirt underneath his, but the rain moaning
outside of my window will always remind me of him.
“I didn’t feel anything, I mean, did you?”
will always hurt more than
“We have to let go of each other.”
My lips trembled and managed to whimper,
“Well, yeah,” as my ribcage exhaled a foggy disdain onto my own ghost.
Sitting on cement and a pillow, sitting on my tongue,
sitting on broken leaves and autumn rain,
sitting on a curved backbone that I thought no man could ever love,
I waited to go home.
I waited for you to love me.
I waited for an eyelash.
I waited for months with wind in my veins and blood in my lungs
for a fortune cookie to read my mind and teach me how to say ”love”
in Chinese.
Then you left, and I stayed, and ecstasy stuffed his tongue down my throat
for a month that felt like a year.
I sat in your home when you weren’t there, I sat on summer rainstorms, and I sat
on a broken backbone, waiting for you to love me.