I’d like to think that I touch something
in the people who I am not in love with but have names for me
like sweetheart, honey, or doll,
perhaps in some way I am their daughter or lover

and I hate thinking that somehow I could be both to every one
I have ever wanted inside me.

The child in their hotel room, too tired for breakfast
or the body of bruises
born in motel mattresses, creating stories
from the popcorn ceilings. She sees stars and bugs but gets lost
in counting sheep because no one has ever been able to

hop over a fence as long as she has lived.
I wanted to ***** out the contents of my life with the bile in
my stomach

and all I got was a few years missing so I am too big
to touch things in people
but too small to touch their outsides. I know people who can be
called honey but not be sweet,
I know girls who get ****** and never are full.