I will admit
that I know nothing about sacrifice,
and I know, I know, I know,
that it is hard to admit that you were right. It was hard
for the last month
to learn to love his friends again. To learn to listen.
To learn to use my mouth for kissing
other mouths. For kissing yours. And the floor
of my car is still sticky with syrup. And my mother
in the kitchen
heats up the chicken and gives me advice: “It is not right
to force your love on people who can’t take it.”
She makes it sound easy. I am on my knees
re-living high school. I fall off the bicycle.
My mother never told me what to do with this
empty love, bloody hands. I am in the bathroom washing them.
But what about the kisses? But what about the dreams, and the meaning
I always give them? But what about last month,
when I said I wanted him and he said “me too” and his mouth was shaped like he meant it?
It is hard to admit this: he didn’t mean it.
So I drop myself off at the bottom of the ocean. So I work on forgiving.
And your mouth is somewhere else,
and I am here, spinning in circles, trying not to wonder what it’s saying.
This is not what I thought life had promised me,
but maybe I should stop wondering. I am shrinking.
And I spread myself like butter across my bed.
I will not wonder
why you are not beside me.