a mistake

It was quiet, save for the sound of breathing.

He slept, unaware of her, or her eyes. She could faintly make out his face. 

For a long time, she watched him.

What the fuck did he mean by, “almost cute”? When he’d seen the expression on her face, he had laughed it off, distracting her with his touch. He was that kind of man. And yet, despite their mutual exhaustion, she couldn’t think of anything else.

    Had he even enjoyed it? Was she good enough? Compared to…


… Hadn’t it been enough?

    She got up, fumbled her way through the suddenly-unfamiliar room.

    The shower water was as hot as it always had been. She made a fist as water met skin, steam quickly filling the room. Though she had closed the door, she hadn’t turned on the light, nor the fan.

    The scent of soap would not be enough. She scrubbed and scrubbed, the sponge grating against ruined skin.

    This was a mistake. 


Spun sonnets from sorrow,
like a long-worn pair of boots, I’ve been walking.
Holes in each sole, her eyes,
& I, with walls talking
crossed hearts, crass words.

Tomorrow I will learn to breathe yet again,
in eight-or-nine-lettered pauses,
I, *breathe*,
I love you,
you were everything I wanted.

But you
love me.

Left me recovering in a three step process,
the nights we spent together, I processed,
and progressed to remember the lies you left on my skin.

“I… I think I love you.”
You only loved him in the bedroom.
And if we’d had room to talk and think,
I think you would have known.

And I? Still, I would have loved you.