the ugly truth is you’re the the loudest one here.
the soundtrack to your sadness is five-inch heels
on the wooden floor, your breath crashing
into that boys neck, winning everyone at beer pong.
all long curls like a telephone cord, eyes green
like the spinach his mother always told him
was good for him, and you’re good for him, you are
but being in someone else’s mouth is a big
commitment and you aren’t ready yet, you aren’t.
you let him touch you and call it cleansing.
call it forgetting. call it replacing. call it
catharsis. call it moving on. call it love, love,
love, but love isn’t supposed to feel this way.
the nightmares haunt. the memories are like fish
inside you, you keep trying to kill with knifes.
you sit in therapy for an hour and don’t say
a single word. can’t. won’t. can’t. can’t. can’t. won’t.
this boy is holding you, but his hands are empty.
still, you lie there and tell yourself maybe
he’ll get you to feel something.
his hair sticks to the pillow and you’re turning this
into more than it is. you make sure your hands
are always on him, terrified of what your own skin
you use the word like a cleansing secret.
you say love so fast you always forget to taste it.
it comes out like a spill
at a bar no one wants to clean up.