When I met you, I stopped smoking
and began to paint my nails every weekend evening. I thought
you could ******* sadness as if it were your own
because I did not drink alcohol,
nothing could dilute it. It was always there on my tongue.
You had never smoked or drank or tried
to **** yourself, though, so you did not recognize
the acid and that hurt my feelings more than razors or erasers.

I was the first girl you slept beside,
you the first to kiss my eyelashes like smelling daisy stems
before I became conscious in morning sunglow.
Even December air had the inside of a lemon’s color.

And that was better than smoking or drinking or killing myself
or painting my nails mint green,
picking off the excess from my cuticles, without you.