I'm thinking about your tattoo and how much I want to kiss it.
I never saw it in person and that makes me feel like I don't know you.
I want to feed you orange slices in bed and watch the juice
drip down your lips, but then I don't think I've ever seen you eat fruit.
There's always a version of you in these poems,
but it's wrapped up with him and him and him.

He's only ever heard my voice on the phone and I want to ask,
Don't you want to see these lips in person?
but I can't be **** and I don't know if I want to be.
You told me that you almost passed out after I kissed you once
and I can't think of anything more me than that.
I am always too much even when I'm trying so hard to be small.

I pretend like I'm advertising to the public, but in truth
I never keep my okcupid profile active for more than a month.
I go through phases of wanting to be loved and wanting to be used
and I can't help but blame you, even if that's unfair.
You loved me and used me and loved me and used me
but I just loved and loved and cried and loved some more.

I want to promise that this is the last poem I ever write about you,
but my eighth grade teacher told me to never put anything I don't believe in writing.
What I'm trying to say is that I'm glad you're not in my life anymore,
but that doesn't mean I don't miss you.

sext: i can still smell your sweat on my pillow. my blankets tangle around me but they should be your legs. come back.

sext: when people have near death experiences, in those minutes before doctors bring them back to life, i imagine they hear your voice. i wonder if you’re why they think they found god.

sext*: you’re still in my dreams but my roommate is worried because i sleep all day, all night, all weekend. i cannot escape the only plane where we both still exist together.

sext: there’s not enough coffee in the world to replace the feeling you gave me.

sext: by the time you read this, i’ll be too drunk to respond, but you probably won’t text me back anyway.

sext: while i was driving last night, i tried a cigarette to remember how you taste. it burned my lips and i spent the rest of the car ride trying to get the smoke out of my mouth.

sext*: all i’m ever trying to say is that it ******* ***** to feel this way.

sext: the last time we kissed was september 28th. do you remember? my lips haven’t touched anyone else’s since you delicately destroyed me.

sext: it’s hard to fathom the distance between us, like my brain cannot believe the sea could be 4,000 miles long, like my heart cannot believe yours would leave.

sext: i wrote an elegy to you in my poetry class. i know you’re not dead, but it kind of feels that way, even though i can still taste you with every cup of tea. i’ve washed that jumper fifty times, but it still smells like you.

sext*: my mother asked how you were and i lied. i told her i hadn’t thought about you in months when i really meant that it’s been months since i could think of anything else.

the first poem about you
oh boy, i’m nervous
i’m thinking about your hair, strangely
i wish i could touch your sweaty hair

oh boy, i’m nervous
i've been so conditioned to be sad
thinking about your smile almost brings me to tears
i promise i’ll be better

i’ve been so conditioned to be sad
and the only thing i’ve cried about this week
was a movie about a boy’s first love who dies
and i realized that’ll never be me

the only thing i’ve cried about this week
was who i used to be before all of this
love and pain and loss
but now there’s someone new

sext: my hands are on your hips, my hands are around your neck, my hands can’t find you anymore. where are you where are you?

sext: your eyes are vast as plains and deep as canyons, and i can’t look into them anymore without falling.

sext: your faded white car is in my driveway and we are tangled inside of it, your breath hot on my collarbone. you feel like high school, but we both know we’re too old for this.

sext*: if i were an artist, i’d paint my love across your shoulder blades. i’d make a canvas of your chest. i would seep into every crevice of your sculptured frame and you’d never leave me.

i have been searching
for a warm hand to hold
a smile in the dark
all of the things i hear about
and here you are

i am too much to hold but you are trying
i cannot look right into your eyes
because i am scared
but you are patient

you kiss me in the middle of the street at 3 AM
you play the piano and that means something
i am a beginner and this is hard
you are right here next to me and i am quiet
for once i am so quiet

we deleted our tinders as a way to say we like each other
i watched as you held the shaking square and it bounced
side to side trying to avoid being killed
and then you pressed the little x with your finger
and you put the same finger inside me not five minutes later

nothing has to mean anything if you don’t want it to
but i want it to and i’d tell you as much but i’m scared you’d listen
you want me to meet your parents and i’m already ******* up
in my head because i don’t make a good first impression
too quiet
too quiet
too quiet

if there was something before this i have forgotten it
because all i can think about is your hand on my back
you broke my glasses again and you were so upset
but as long as i can see you it’ll be okay
when you cook spaghetti for me in your little kitchen
it makes my heart hurt
but in a good way

I always think I’m clean until I
look closer, put my glasses back on,
inspect my surroundings.
There’s love hiding between the cracks in the sidewalk,
and you can see it if you’re willing to look
close enough. Squat on the pale concrete.
Really get your face up close to it.
It’s there, I promise.

There’s love stuck under my fingernails
and I just can’t seem to scrub it out.
It’s between my toes, under my tongue, behind my ears.
I brush it out of my hair in the shower, but it always comes
back–like lice or a boomerang or the strep that keeps
invading my throat every few months.

I don’t think you’re there anymore, though.
I’ve emptied all my pockets, wrung out my freshly-washed
underwear, thrown away all my bras. You’re not in my shoes,
either, but I turn them upside down and shake sometimes
just to make sure.
Sometimes I wonder about the ratio of my lungs, how
much is water, blood, air, the sound of your voice,
or if it’s even there anymore.

remember the time you were crying in the break room
because you ruined the lasagna and your boss called you
incompetent.
remember how he held you in his arms and told you
'you're too good for this place anyhow.'
don't remember how you kissed him in his driveway
in the dark
in july.
teeth on teeth,
skin on skin.
he doesn't care.
remember that. remember
that.
his face may follow the golden ratio
and his arms may be strong enough to hold you back
from jumping over the ledge into an
unending
          blissful
                  abyss,
but he doesn't love you.
he will never love you.
how could he love someone with a scarred heart
and shaky hands and a flawed sense of self?
how could he love someone who reduces him
to one hundred and fifty silly words?

if you rip open your scar and throw the stitches on the gravel,
you should expect someone to step on them.
you can't get them back now.
you have to heal all over again.