I am teeth,
He is fist.
I am the scabs on his knuckles,
The salt dripping from his lip.
He is strong, humble.
The type of boy your mother
Wants for herself.

My eyes are gray-blue,
Almost like fog.
He asked me if I could see through them.
I said “no.”
He asked again.
I said “no.”
He asked again.
I said “I can see you.”

His eyes are brown,
Or at least that’s what I imagined.
Maybe they’re blue too.
Maybe we have that in common.
I’ve never looked at him long enough to tell.

He is action,
I am script.
He is the character,
I am just the traits.

He is fist,
I am teeth.
He keeps his hands at his side.
He knows when to put them up.
He outlines my edges.
He needs someone who can open their arms.
I can only open my jaw.
He needs another fist.
I need myself.
A body needs two fists
But only one set of teeth.
We just don’t fit together.

My eyes are gray-blue.
My eyes are fog.
I can’t see through them.
I can’t see him
And I’m beginning to think thats a good thing.

His eyes aren’t brown.
They aren’t mud.
They’re diamonds encrusted in red sockets.
I should feel honored
He tore them out and
Offered them to me on a ring.
I only feel sick.

He is a text message at 3am.
He is “I hope she’s not asleep, its only 3am.”
I am still awake at 3am.
I am “why is he texting me at 3am.”

I am teeth,
He is fist.
I am gnash and snarl and bark.
I am a last resort.
He is broken nose and black eye,
He is bruise and scar.
I am machine,
He is tool.
I am teeth and he is fist
And we were never meant to intersect.