the father apologizes
in this story, but you’ve
already torn out the last
few chapters, so you
don’t know why,
or what for

maybe he’ll hug you,
this time, or run a hand
through your hair,
maybe make you breakfast?
or just call you his boy

and wouldn’t that be nice,
to be your father’s boy,
for the very first
******* time?

and i’ll bite the
hand that held me,
alright, and i’ll
bite the hand that
beat me even harder

it’ll be his blood
on my teeth this time,
instead of mine

i’ll hold the knife
he gave me in a steady
grip, and excise every
last bit of the hurt
he left behind

and the father apologizes
in this story, but it
doesn’t fix anything

and the fear of a child
still haunts the man
that i grew up to be

i tuck the knife
that was in my back
into my front pocket

this thing inside my
chest, it keens when
i wipe the blood off
on a tattered sleeve

and i’ve just been
cold for so ******* long,
i don’t know how to
feel any other way

and what do you
mean, when you say that
you won’t hurt me
this time?

the knife trembles in
my grip, and i won’t
believe you,
i just can’t

i won’t beg to
be touched with gentle
and caring hands,
won’t ask nicely,
won’t ask at all

this thing, seeking a
safe harbor nestled between
my ribs, bares crooked teeth
and snaps at anything,
anyone, that gets too close

and so i take
solace in what i know,
tell myself that’s enough until
i believe it

and i do not
yearn, and i do
not ache, and i
do not wish

and there’s a knife
in my hand, and blood
on my shirt, and there
will be no rest

there will be no rest

i once again find myself
to be lovelorn
lovesick,
and foolishly so,
when it comes to you

with a heart too prone
to pining for its own good,
i dream of donning a silk gown
and sharing a dance with you

let me long,
and ache,
and wish,
just a little longer

maybe you could have
loved me once,
in the way that i desired,
but that’s not in the cards
i find myself holding this time

and there’s no tricks
up my sleeve, no clever
metaphors like crashing my
ship upon the rocks of this
longing again and again

just watching the dappled
light from rising sun casting
its warming rays across the back
of a chair with two hats resting
on either side

and maybe that’s enough,
maybe it has to be

it is raining,
when i leave you,
and when you hug me,
bathed in the warm glow
of yellowed bulbs in
your kitchen, i never
want to go

the scent of the
blanket i laid under
clings to my flannel, and
makes me think of you

if i press my nose
to the sleeve, i can
almost convince myself
you’re in the next room

but it’s just me here,
only the pattering rain
for company, still writing
hopeless hopeful hopesick
poetry about a man
i am not in love with anymore

my heart stills knows you, though
looks forward to every time that
we meet again, and you’ll take
me in your arms and remind
me again that i exist

i am as real to you
as the cheap beer slowly warming
in my hand, or the cake i baked
because you asked me to so sweetly,
or that smile of yours that always
feels like it’s just for me

i see you,
and i know that
you see me, too

and sure, i guess that
the rituals i am constructing
here are a certain
kind of intricate

intimate?
INTRICATE

can’t just come right out
with it and ask to be held,
so i’ll provoke you instead,
my love

your fist,
my mouth

my bloodied teeth,
your soft neck

tighten your hands in the
collar of my threadbare jacket,
and at least you’re
touching me, then

and it feels like i’ve
written this before,
walking in tracks that
already match the soles
of my well-worn boots

and maybe i have, and maybe
it’s been about you
every ******* time

1..when i think of you,
i find myself as a teenager
again, both of us standing
in the middle of my messy
bedroom, with the curtains
and door both shut

and i don’t remember
who kissed first, but i
know how it felt when you
bit the inside of my lip,
and hot blood ran down
my chin

maybe there’s a greater
metaphor wrapped up in that,
but you were my first in more
ways that just a kiss
that ended ******

first girlfriend to first
boyfriend, growing into
who we were supposed to
be, side by side

until we stopped, and
i lost you somewhere
along the way, and i
never did find you again

i don’t want to
find you now, my first
and last of so many things

i try not to think of you,
and i wonder if you feel
that way about me, too

2..when i think of you,
i am 14 years old and
in what i thought was
love at the time, again

i’ve done a really
good job of forgetting you,
can’t even remember the
color of your eyes,
or how it made me feel
to wake up in your arms

you were simultaneously one
of the best and worst things
to ever happen to me

but i remember how
it made me feel when we
met for the first time at
the mall, and you took my hand,
looked me in the eyes and said,
‘i’m not afraid of people seeing
me holding your hand’

3..when i think of you,
we’re eating sushi and
drinking cokes,
meeting for the first time

it should have ended
then, but i’d gotten a taste
of what it was like to be
looked at and seen,
and wanted more

you never did look
at me like that again, though,
and it still makes me angry
to know that you wouldn’t
hold me, or even touch me,
unless you were ******

4..when i think of you,
we’re kissing in the cold
garage of your ex boyfriend’s
townhouse, and you’re touching
my cheek like i’m something
that deserves to be held tenderly

walking home in the
dark, feeling drunk off of
what might have been love,
i drafted a poem in my head
about another man
and we both wanted
there to be a love story
for us so ******* bad

but all you did
was use me up and then try
to take even more after
you’d already bled me dry

5..when i think of you,
it’s in the context of all
those pretty lies you fed me,
that i happily lapped up

and you were surprised
when i’d had enough and
bit the hand that held me
in a way that could have been
tender, but only made me bitter
in the end

6..when i think of you,
there is good food warming
my belly, and *** in my glass

we could go play
pirates together, and forget
what it is that holds us down,
that which we must carry,
if only for the night

and i don’t regret
loving you like i did,
oh captain of mine

7..when i think of you,
it’s like coming home again
after having been gone
for just a little too long

and i’ve been madly,
deeply, head over heels,
in love with you since i
met you when i was 16

when you read my
own words to me, and
i liked how they sounded
on your tongue, you made
me feel seen, feel known,
in ways i never had before

you know how to
soothe that great snarling thing
that lives between my ribs

you tell me i
am good, i am kind,
i am known and seen and
loved, and i believe you
every ******* time

under the cover of
near darkness, with the setting
sun painting the clouds in the
richest of hues, and a light patter
of rain falling onto the trees,
i will say, “follow me”

and lead you by
the hand deeper into the forest,
where the glow of the sunset
hardly reaches, and i will say,
“here’s where i buried
a part of me”

you’ll ask me what
part that would be exactly, and
i’ll drop your hand to hang
my head and reply that i
don’t know anymore

you nod, and drop
softly to the forest floor,
pushing dirt aside like
you know exactly what
to look for

and maybe you do,
always able to coax out
the bitter and broken parts
and then hold me until i
am myself again

then, freeing a small
box from the wet earth,
you stand once more to
present this long-since buried
thing to me

part of me is
afraid to take it, which you
also seem to know, and tell me again,
“you are good. you were made to
love and be loved in turn, just like
we all were”

and we’ll bury that
box again together,
albeit empty this time

and you’ll take my
hands in yours to lead
me back out into the
velvet blue beauty of the night

and you’ll say to
me, with my head resting
on your shoulder,
“i’ll always be there to
walk you home”

and
and
and
i will always know
this to be true