this poem will be the last time i write about
the way you kissed me in your car last winter.
after this, I will never again admit
that I’ve masturbated thinking about you
for the past ten months.
it feels stupid now to say,
but when you drove for six hours
to surprise me at my show
I thought it was the start of a second chance.
I thought we were, finally, on the same page.
I don’t know why you did it
if you were going to kiss someone else on
new years eve, anyway.


it’s true that I was barely happy when we were together
so it’s hard to explain why, exactly,
I sobbed and heaved and dragged my sorry body
through a new year’s morning without you.
it’s true that the animal itching under my skin
has never known how to stop wanting.
it doesn’t care about all those bad dates you took me on
or how much I cried on the drives home,
it only cares about the feeling of your hands on my skin
and the soft fact of your mouth –
even though you never really listened to me,
even though I don’t think we’ve ever had
a single honest conversation.


i’ll probably be cursing you out for months
no matter how long you kiss someone else’s lips,
and i’ll just have to figure that out on my own.
i’m not sure what will happen when I can speak to you again.
when I can stand in front of you and look you in the eyes,
who knows what this mouth will say?
it knows too much
about the soft place on your neck
where you like to be kissed.
it knows too much about what it feels like
to have my back pressed against your bedroom wall.
it knows too much about the fact
that you only ever half-wanted me:
never quite enough to make me feel like i was seen,
never quite enough to know me.