We have talked, tonight,
about the function of the subconscious –
whether it shapes my dreams
forgets your nights
clouds our judgment
makes mistakes,
or whether it is simply a figment
of the scholars’ imaginations
an out for the unexplainable
a possibility for a girl who has too many
answers.

I call to evidence the empty bottles
in your sacred hands,
the you that is trying to escape the frigid confines
of a strict upbringing.

I call to evidence my bowl of cherrios
tucked between burnt *******
the liquid courage that enables
the dripping of my secrets.

You are a lover of words,
a man who knows the simplicity of each syllable
and the power behind one’s expression,
but I find you a hypocrite
as you thank me for my story and do not realize
that I have not expressed
****.

You are exactly right,
the difference between recounting, reliving,
telling, communicating, and explaining
comes down to more than a metanarrative detail.

The words that you have studied
comfort you and frame our conversation
yet veil the greater truth.

You are a lover of emotion
the same emotion you fear is gay
that you have only discovered on your feminine side
which falls down your face in the middle of my narrative
and clenches your fists


You say you cannot sympathize empathize
or understand,
but maybe you feel.

It was nice to meet you.