I would like to keep all of the men I love in little glass jars along the bookshelf in my bedroom. But, that is no way to be a woman. I would like to write for you without the worry of you reading it. I don’t like feeling watched and yet everything is a show. I could keep this to myself, and yet I don’t. We are periscope and peony and moontalk like the new tattoo on my ribcage.
He says, “I don’t know if you like it when I touch you.” I think, “I don’t know what I like anymore.”
Across the street from your house was a bodega we used to walk to that summer. I would buy popsicles and you would buy cigarettes and we would sit on the front steps and share them both. I remember feeling that summer like there were a lot of big decisions to be made, and yet now I do not remember what they were. I think there is a lesson in how we move through times. I think I am in one again.
I think about you in New York and how I will never know you there. I think about New Years in LA and the dress I wore. I think about listening to music in your car with the windows up and the seats back and telling myself, this is the kind of night you are supposed to remember. I worry so much about growing old and not living out this life way I am supposed to.
He tells me I don’t think in big picture. He tells me I am all detail and deep breaths. I do not correct this.
If I could live my life again I would only speak up more often and tell everyone how I feel even if that means changing things. I would rather live with the cards on the table and lose people I love than keep them close to the vest and never feel much.
I am going to buy a plane ticket to the south and not be in love with anyone for the first time in my life.