Sap and Syrup

I once wrote a poem
about how I wanted to hold hands
with a boy whose hands were colder than mine.

And I once wrote a poem
about being curled up on my bed
with someone who stared into my eyes
like he had never seen the color green before;
whose laugh I can still pick out,
with music blasting and crowds of people.

I wrote several poems
about a boy who let me trace the scar
on his right hand over and over
and sang beautifully to whatever song came on 104.5
and changed the radio when I needed to hear “Clarity”
and made me hate it forever after.

And now I’m left writing sad songs,
and morbid poetry.
Domestic violence
and sexual assault in the work place.
I am left trying to impress people
I fangirl over.

And that is not expression.

I am left with erotica spilling from my lips
and onto keys
and names like soft spoken inkwells
because I’m too shy to do slam poetry,
with a confident voice.

But on days when it’s raining
know this:
That I will fit into the curve of your side
and we can watch whatever (even Friends)
and listen to whatever
(but please not rap)
and if you just run your fingers through my hair
or drape an arm over my side
that’s all I want,
that’s all I’ll write.

And maybe, for once, I’ll know what happiness tastes like
without writing about biting collarbones
and meshing flesh.

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