weave

when i was 7 i had a 4×4 woven blanket,
i’d always had it.
baby pink and blue and yellow and green
it disappeared into the washer one day

when i was 17 i found my blanket
folded on a pile of other old things
i thought were gone forever

i carried it into my first dorm room
into my second dorm room
and my third
on a trip to austin, texas
to every room i made mine

i’m working on loving it
to the last string

on the line

my life will be lived in a hot pan
sauteed over fire with shallots and lime
defined by flashing silver and late nights
crashing into cotton long after my love

floating on juniper-y liquors
and lavender, coriander brews
with a flick, twist of skinny wrists
until insomnia means nothing

and tomorrow comes









via (never pause)

quiet intimacy

sometime after my 13th birthday but
before my 14th
i rode double on a bike to my town’s best park
and sucked my first dick in the dark under a tree
we weren’t good at communicating yet so
his cum fell in my hair and mouth
i spit it out
and cried

my parents never talked to me about sex
they yelled at me for being alone with a boy
they grounded me for hiding him in my garage
or bedroom or attic or basement

sometime after my 15th birthday but
before my 16th
i lay double under a blanket on my front porch’s bench
and decided to stop pretending to fuck
we knew by then how to communicate but not like this so
he fumbled and squirmed and gave up
dry humped
and i cried

my friends and i always talked about sex
we assumed i’d be the first to have it
i told them about all my escapades in my garage
or bedroom or attic or basement

sometime after my 17th birthday but
before my 18th
i waited alone on my boyfriend’s bed
and he walked to get condoms
we had done everything but this so
it was awkward and a little painful
i bled
and didn’t cry