Here I am hunched over another
stomachache, another mistake,
and all I can do is watch the bruises form and darken.

The first time I met you
was a corner table in a coffee shop
with blackberry water and toes frozen solid.
Mint chocolate chip nights, vandalizing desks,
scrubbing grimy dance floors—
it was my kind of falling in love.
Less like falling, blushing, butterflies;
more like a face plant onto the sidewalk
(unexpected, clumsy, bleeding).

But maybe love isn’t french kissing and slow songs.
It’s forehead kisses, dreaming of Japan,
listening to post-rock.

I think you knew, though,
that our ice cream would melt and our sparklers would die out.
Now I’m the beggar on the street corner:
“’Scuse me sir, do you have any love to spare?”
Or change.
Pennies and dimes jingle in my cup holder,
but change is what cracked my plastic heart and ripped my paper skin.

I’m weaker now, but not poorly made;
There’s been no knock-out punch or final words.
Just bare-fist brawling, searing insults,
bruises,
bleeding.