Here I am once more
playing a game of Russian Roulette
in which I know that
the cold bullet of another love
will surely end me.

 I dig that when I sit down

with a group of close women

and I mention a man

A man I like and respect

I get comments from them

“Yeah, he's always been nice to us"

"Nothing to worry about"

"My very close friend"

You passed

You're a safe one

You're a cool friend to have.

how hard it is sometimes

to understand

that you are loved 

just for being

Loretta

without anything to prove

without having to do anything for others

you're just loved

and it's a good thing

 

Your hands full of my hips.
My fists full of your hair.
I want you and ache for you,
it feels like it's been forever
nothing changes
we're fit like puzzle pieces
from completely different boxes.
It shouldn't be like this.
We shouldn't match so well.
And yet, the shadow of your back
in the wall of this room,
your face hidden in the crook of my neck
invites me to pull you closer

until
we
break.

 My first august was when I was 16 and crazy in love, lost for a little bit of reassurance. You were sweet, kind, and just smart enough to twist me into you. I was sweet, kind, and just gullible enough to think you were being honest.

Come show me, precious love,
your feelings 'cause I ache to know
I'm too involved and too willing
and my heart is yours to fill.

Here I stand, all forgiveness,
all absence of self,
I am here and I'm listening
I'm sorry for not doing so before.

I don't understand anger
and agression as anything but danger
I was raised between blades and fists,
burning pictures and dilated eyes.

I shiver at the thought of violence,
I fear being held against walls
I remember the cold brush of a knife
against my neck and my arms

And I know you never held me
in a violent embrace of rage
not with harm in your heart
or drugs in your system

I can't help but remember
what it's like to sit still
in a house on fire
and pretend I'm not made of cloth.

 

When I write a poetry book
I will title it
"Poems for those who don't think
about me as much as I think about
them"
and it will be long
like a grocery list of people
with their own little poems
about their rosy cheeks
their tiny voices
their long dark hair
their hidden smiles
those secretly shed tears
the greenest eyes
the biggest hugs
and the fistfuls of anger
that I don't seem to ever forget
that become my personal ghosts
that chase me in my thoughts
and haunt my dreams
that everytime they go away
I can't help but wonder 
if I made an impression
big enough to be remembered
through days and months and years
I hope if they think
about me it's not for haunting
it's not for chasing
I hope that if I live in someone else's head
they don't feel the need to write
little silly poems
about my shaky hands
and my anxious sighs
I hope they don't remember
how tormented I can be
I hope they don't worry
like I worry about them.