A deaf boy once wrote
"Mama, the silence is too loud."

in Nordstroms at the Cherry Creek Mall
in Denver, I tried on a gold dress that didn't
fit around my hips (but not many things do,
including your arms or your eyes or your
honesty) and the dressing room attendant
didn't bother to knock before unlocking the
door to tell me that this particular room
wasn't for me, and her eyes, particularly
her boho hat, made me feel like slime,
like a wet body bag, like a sweaty
creature that crawled out from
beneath the hot stones in canon
city and I eagerly shuffled out of
the hall with the gold dress that didn't
fit around my hips (because nothing does)
and the for the rest of the day I saw myself
fitting my skin over inanimate objects and wishing
I could be beautiful.

your
fingertips
were electric, each
touch lit a thousand sparks
and as your hands traced patterns up
my back and you tangled your fingers in my
hair i almost thought we were invincible, a force to
be reckoned with, but we were never enough to light a fire