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                          It was there heating
                                            sloping cavernous craniums

                         It was there illuminating
              marble hallways

         It was there immolating
                              witches at stakes

                                     Its fierce essence
                          frightens wilder-beasts

                                   Its mesmerizing radiance
  lures moths to annihilation

                       When in love, we often become
             both wilder-beast and moth

                As children, we learn
             to leap back from the flame

                               When old, we are rolled
                 into iron incinerators

                                    And every day between
   We are encompassed by suns
                       We are consumed by flickering passions

                                  We set-off firecrackers
                           for amusement

               We light candles
                                     to measure time

                         Veladoras to whisper
                                 to gods

                                          Fire is Life

                                      Something in us will
                                            forever burn.

Out of all the words in the human languages, almost is the cruelest.
                                              I almost loved you.
                                              I almost won.
                                              I was almost there.


                                              I was almost *****.

When he snuck into the room like a wolf stalking its prey, my stomach didn’t almost tie in knots.
            It became a sailor’s masterpiece.

When he laid beside me as quiet as a stone, I wasn’t almost shaking.
            I was a leaf on the San Andreas Fault.

When his long, spidery fingers began trailing down my back, it didn’t almost feel like razors.
            He cut so deep the skin began to peel back and expose every    
            insecurity that I’ve hidden away between my vertebrae.

His fingers didn’t almost dig into my arm,
            they became shovels that dug a hole big enough for a casket.

Bruises didn’t almost blossom across my skin,
            I was a primrose bush in full bloom and he was the gardener.

When he coerced himself between my thighs, I didn’t almost scream.
            Years of ancestral abuse surged through my lungs and out my lips  
            into a battle cry.

When he tried to force his hand inside of me I didn’t almost feel spoiled.      
             I was a fruit rotting from the inside out, something that no one  
            would ever want.

And when my screams finally drove him off of me, I wasn’t almost okay.
             I was paralyzed with fear and disgust and shame.

Everything I’ve ever believed in slapped me in the face as I told myself:
                                      This is what I get for liking ***.
                                      I shouldn’t be so easy.
                                      I was asking for it.


                                      It was my fault.

I felt like a butterfly, beautiful but ruined by a man’s touch.
             Never to fly again.

But the truth is, a butterfly sheds scales throughout its lifetime,          
             regenerating its wings.

So when a man reaches for your wings in attempts to rip them off
             remember that you are not what he thinks you are.

Remember that it is never your fault.
             Not even almost.

We were sitting in metal lawn chairs, off balance,
rocking between one chair leg and the next
on the cracked sidewalk just in front
of some ice cream shop I don’t remember the name of.
But I do remember how the drips of melted chocolate
looked like two teardrops sitting on your orange shirt collar,
and I do remember how the breeze would fit
through the triangle-shape of sky in the crook of your elbow
as you leaned in on the table just to steal a lick from my cone.
I hate salmon and sea foam colors, but somehow the reflection
of the bold letters in the metal shine of the counter looked good
on your cheekbones, highlighting you in the softest ocean neon.
And I thought we’d take a walk on the shore like a Jason Mraz song,
but we just made love in the hotel room, my sand-stained bikini bottoms
drying on the balcony ledge, seagulls landing on your socks
with the toes still soaked cause we just couldn’t wait
to jump in, like I do to your skin, when we’re alone and dancing
on top of one another to the muffled sound of the waves
hitting the screens of the sliding door.

I could pack myself
for months inside of you, just travel through your smile like a boarding pass.
And you’d think I’d be out of words by now, but I savor you
like sour patch kids on the car ride, stuffing my face with your sweetness
until my tongue is sore and I have to remedy myself
with another night of tangling myself
in your arms like umbrella stands, shading me
from the curve of the sun as it dies,
fading into the night like we do
when we toss ourselves into our cheap, road trip evenings,
all the money we shouldn’t have spent, and the way our bodies line up
end to end.

You untangle our limbs,
Climb groggily out of my bed.
Redress, tell me not to get up, to salvage a few last hours of rest. Quick kiss, then you slip out into the limbo of the wee hours of the night and the crack of dawn.
Lonely, I instinctively roll to invade the side of my bed you claim as yours,
Thinking if I wrap myself in your sent before it fades I won't feel so alone.
But somehow you never seem to leave a trace.
It's like you were never here.
So I remain lonely.