made me bold - like a horse
I don't remember you that way when i think about you. In the restaurant your socks were pulled up and your hair was chopped at your shoulders and i thought that you looked like him - only smaller, and more talkative. and more...attentive- attentive to your coffee and the conversation and the place under my eyebrow but above my eye.
you said you wanted to talk about me, not him. I told you it was time we talked about you.
Your jaw and nose looked the same, as they always did. But now you're tan where you used to be milky white.with big hands and broad shoulders and muscle where there used to be bone.
You told me that i should write, still. What i know and what i see everyday. The things i tell you.
I tell you that im fucked up. and i know it. and i never feel guilty about anything. Not even forgetting about my friends. not even laughing and my fathers girlfriends jokes. not even having fucked more people then he has.
And then we decide that we need to talk about something else - because you are suffocating and looking at the place where my ankle connects to my foot.
I told you about him and how he talks and the things he says. I tell you how im proud of his work and his music man hands. You ask me if i'll ever stay here, and if you can come and visit me.
I told you my couch was always open and you snorted into your sugar-sweet coffee.
your hair is dark. and long. and matches your eyebrows and your eyes and you tell me that it sounds like he deserves me, finally.
and i know that,and when you ask i tell you that i do not deserve him or the freckles on his shoulders or the way he dances in the shower when we are both naked and the music is as loud as the sun searing through windows.
the diner that we sit in, always, has booths so that we can lean and stretch out our legs - thats how you spot my foot/ankle and thats how i spot your white white socks (bleached against your newly-brown skin) - from here i can tell you about everything
except the things that matter most and are sacred
but nothing is sacred.
so i tell you he is the best sex ive ever had, and hes handsome, and i'll probably marry him
but my therapist says that my marriage is doomed - if i remain codependent, and self esteem-less, and a control freak.
(this is the heart of the heart of what i know. in the diner the lights are dim, the waitresses name is lillian, and we have 20 lemon slices for 2 glasses of water, and only three creamers left for us to share before we ask lillian back over, and it is not enough.)
you said you wanted to talk about me, not him. I told you it was time we talked about you.
Your jaw and nose looked the same, as they always did. But now you're tan where you used to be milky white.with big hands and broad shoulders and muscle where there used to be bone.
You told me that i should write, still. What i know and what i see everyday. The things i tell you.
I tell you that im fucked up. and i know it. and i never feel guilty about anything. Not even forgetting about my friends. not even laughing and my fathers girlfriends jokes. not even having fucked more people then he has.
And then we decide that we need to talk about something else - because you are suffocating and looking at the place where my ankle connects to my foot.
I told you about him and how he talks and the things he says. I tell you how im proud of his work and his music man hands. You ask me if i'll ever stay here, and if you can come and visit me.
I told you my couch was always open and you snorted into your sugar-sweet coffee.
your hair is dark. and long. and matches your eyebrows and your eyes and you tell me that it sounds like he deserves me, finally.
and i know that,and when you ask i tell you that i do not deserve him or the freckles on his shoulders or the way he dances in the shower when we are both naked and the music is as loud as the sun searing through windows.
the diner that we sit in, always, has booths so that we can lean and stretch out our legs - thats how you spot my foot/ankle and thats how i spot your white white socks (bleached against your newly-brown skin) - from here i can tell you about everything
except the things that matter most and are sacred
but nothing is sacred.
so i tell you he is the best sex ive ever had, and hes handsome, and i'll probably marry him
but my therapist says that my marriage is doomed - if i remain codependent, and self esteem-less, and a control freak.
(this is the heart of the heart of what i know. in the diner the lights are dim, the waitresses name is lillian, and we have 20 lemon slices for 2 glasses of water, and only three creamers left for us to share before we ask lillian back over, and it is not enough.)