this might appall you
or agonize you but i do.
i remember still evenings
with little to exchange besides
heartbeats and breathing patterns.
i remember soft afternoons
with my back raking against the carpet
leaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.
i remember dark roads, and darker rains.
i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.
the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,
but they ache and the few times i hear your voice
wedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cake
of neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation in
the small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for your
breath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,
and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.
you would finger fuck me in the movie theater
and i would squirm and you would laugh because
i am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would take
was a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under my
teeth and your eyes would get that fog that delivers a hard-on and
you have to remember how hard you tried to get hard so you could fuck her
and what does that mean.
mostly i remember passion. voices weak with exhaustion.
you understood that i did not want to be taken care of.
i did not want to be anybody's princess. i did not want
to be a special protected delicacy. i did not want chivalry.
and yes, i have had
better sex with better men
since then, and i do not think of
you when i fuck myself, and i do not
think of you when i'm being fucked by someone else,
and i do not think of you in my sleep, and i do not
dream of you in sorrow or in peace, i just remember you