Things I Don’t Tell Patrick

Lake Michigan mid calf and stones supplementing spine, how I cried in the bed of the first boy who ever kissed me and you said you were sorry. The night on our first couch, my lips no longer in the curve of your shoulder blades heaving, the shame of saying I can reopen wounds like a self-made surgeon because bathroom visits in puberty taught me that flesh is just flesh and I have no heart worth more. The night on our second couch when I came to bed and told you nights apart meant I knew I was decrepit and you cried yourself to sleep; I just slept in. Wake me up before you leave, I stayed asleep for two years. This vena cava contortionist still works rooms, so I spent some time in bed. Walls are too thin for waterworks, so she told them I was unbearable as if I was something that needed to be born again. I worry I have been stolen from this birthing sack too soon and I never knew what it meant to tell someone no, but it took me two nights to write this and the tenses regarding love changed halfway through so I suppose I am growing into gunpowder now.


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