i felt his poetry
as he sauntered into the room
disguised in a tattered t-shirt
and acid-washed jeans:
it took me by surprise
how ugly they were.

rhythm but not rhyme from
his electric hair and
ink-stained skin and
***** fingernails
drum - drum - drumming
against the side of his arm.

i clawed at my insecurities
pouting my lips and
flipping my hair and
sticking my chest out
but i was invisible
or he was immune.

it was not real love,
i told myself for
the third, tenth, twentieth time.
because real love is flannel
and wool socks and a cup of
hot coffee on a sunday morning.

it was not real ***,
i assured my aching body
one last time
because real *** is salt
and breathlessness and teeth
burrowing into my skin.

this is something else.
something that covers,
encases, weighs
heavy on me although
i mostly can't say what it is,
only what it isn't.