because the first time i fucked you
i also learned to love myself.
and i thought that was strange, how i could
be hurting myself in all these irrevocable ways,
just to come back and do it all again later.
i once asked twenty-three passengers on an airplane
to Paris why they were there.
almost all of them said the same thing:
they wanted to get away from life.
but aren’t there any better reasons?
what if one of them had told me:
i am leaving because i cannot stand this town anymore.
or maybe i wished a girl had told me,
i have bruises on my thighs from where he grips me too hard,
and i know it’s only a matter of time before this escalates
into something that can never be undone.
the dictionary gives you definitions of words
but it never tells you how they feel.
maybe the word “heart” feels like an apricot pit
stuck in your throat.
or maybe the word “bones” feels like being stung
by a jellyfish.
some people can kiss each other in public easily.
i always have to kiss you behind a door,
so that no one will see how badly i want to get lost
in your teeth, in your mouth.