i wrote this to tell you all the things you'll never get to know about me

you will never get to know what i taste like with all 90 days under my belt

you'll never get to know how i handle the anniversary of my mother's death
or what watching my father die does to me

you'll never get to see me bailing my little brother out of jail
or find out about how i don't smile the same way anymore after serving two years inside

you'll never see me on my wedding day
and you will never hear me tell you "i do" or that i love you

or hear me announce that my wife is pregnant
and you'll certainly never get to meet my baby girl and she'll have eyes just like her mama

you will never hear me come home from work when we're in our late thirties and i always have a good reason to bring flowers

you won't ever find out what my favorite song is when i'm mowing the lawn out back
and you won't be there when i decide to press charges on the man that hurt me


my point is
you're gone.
and honestly, you might not care. you might not ever even think of me again.
but you will never get to know me.
and for that i am thankful

-she's autumn
(and that's my favorite season)
always a little red in the face,
and that's my favorite color
(especially on her)

-i like her because she's all early september
(which means staying in bed until after 10)

-and she always holds me when i feel like i'm falling apart
(which is often)

-she kisses like 4th of july
(which means HARD)
and my ears are still ringing
(which means i can't think about anything else)

-she's all firecrackers and campfires
(i can still smell her on my clothes in the morning)

-she's the reason i'm trying so hard
(which is to say)
i love you

The last time we met it was raining
and the stampede of raindrops on the roof
must have made it hard for you to hear.
I had wanted to tell you about my mother
how I wasn’t yet five feet tall
when she was six feet under.
Lover, listen.
Incurable illnesses cannot recognize
the plumpness of an over ripe nectarine
from the plumpness of a woman’s breast.
And the last time we met I don’t think you heard me say
that my name is Amelia
because you kept moaning Sarah.
Now, lover.
I understand the impossibility of moving on
but I’ve run out of excuses to make.
There’s no Lauren or Patrice
just me in these sheets.
Lover, please.
Pick me.