In these last months, I’ve gotten to
know you. In fact, we’ve courted,
shared countless chili dogs, rubbed up
against each other in bathroom stalls.
We’ve looked up words to make sure
they match us.
You’ve taught me to wrinkle my brows
at passing hand holders,
that sway of together-walk used to get
me like dark chocolate.
I want revenge now. I want to put my
hands on their turtlenecks.
People put honey on the way they say
things,
dream beside the idea of someone
they’ve painted under their sheets.
It’s so easy to fill shoes that never
had feet in them.
They lost their edge, you say, but I
know where they put it.
Lately, I iron my clothes; stand in the
empty room where love
used to be, used it up on this steam
that is rolling over my buttondown.
These summer nights are like dog
breath, everything sticking
to everything else. There aren’t too
many thoughts I can shake,
so I shake my head to make peace with
the thing in my chest.
I taught myself.