i am awoken by
the sounds of rain
thundering down onto
the patio outside the window
of what used to be my room

dragging myself from the
warmth of bed, i go
through the motions of
pulling on clean clothes
and brewing coffee

pausing for a sip,
i take a peek around
around the corner of my
laptop, and find that the
pond has flooded

water laps further up the
stone steps like a
hungry ocean, and rain
continues to fall

waiting for the flood,
like it will smooth out
all my jagged edges,
i imagine myself as
a fish

maybe a trout, caught
by a starving man,
held aloft in strong hands
as the hook is pulled
from my mouth

and when that knife
slips down the seam
of my tender belly, i’ll
welcome the gutting, because
it’s him wielding the blade

take from me what
is of use, and discard
the rest, like plucking
thin bones from between your
teeth, and i wonder if you’ll
think of me then

when the reaching and
pulling, and dragging arms
of the ocean i willingly walk
into, take me into the mouth
of that verdant beast

and the house floods,
sends coffee mugs and
empty bottles tumbling,
smashed on the rocks
of this longing

and when the rain
lessens just enough for
sunlight to arc out across
the expanse of that endless
sea that stretches from one
end of the horizon to the other

and you’re out there
on your paper sailboat,
you’ll realize that we’re
under the same blazing sun
once again, and smile like
you do, just for me

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