It slices the night into two pieces to know someone
who can love, who is fully capable, but cannot love me.
That day you said you were a kiwi, hairy and fuzzy on the
outside, all green on the inside. And I rebelled
because I insist on being the green one. Forest green, kelly
green, mint green, green to still be within the circle…
my front door slamming of its own volition, the inside
door slamming of my volition. I chose and my choice is
What I really want is to be an apple, for its crisp red skin,
full of seeds on the inside, sweet, ordinary, and round.
Yet I could never be round. I don’t have the guts that roundness requires.
Thinking I had guts obscured me, thinking I could
drown you into oblivion…
without drowning myself.
Submission, submersion, sounds, lists of sounds,
all the little sounds we made.
It was madness. There. I’ll say it for you.
I always knew exactly how to phrase what you couldn’t.
Why not brag? Why not brag about how I expected
to emerge unchanged? Why not champion our stupidity
like America and breakfast? Why not just admit
there was a subtle moment we had something,
ourselves, our skin jammed into the same small space?
I don’t know if I loved you…
or if I loved you…
Because it simply was, I might never know.
I only know the tender touch of corruption,
hands that could have me without belonging to me,
ears that probably never heard me.
I only know the night has been sliced in half.