maybe it’s the mystery
the devilish gleam in your eye
when you receive
from them
from her
from me

I am forcing these words out of my throat
making them bubble in the pit of my esophagus.
I am terrified to bleed these words of red
because the stains will remain long after the sentences fade

maybe it’s the crooked, toothy grin
and the mischievous chuckle that goes hand in hand
or perhaps it’s the way you lick your lips
before stating an opinion
or I don’t know, maybe it’s how soft your stubble can be
when it’s scraping against the inside of my jaw

what I feel isn’t valid because there have been two hundred before me
and I can’t be blinded by thinking that there won’t be more after me