You had the heart of a hummingbird, the tongue
of a hornet. Sweet sting. I tried to be a flower for you, or
a nectar. Sickening. I can’t help but be
attracted to disaster.

You had the hands of a sculptor;
I placed myself between them, wet clay.
I wanted you in me
……………maneuvering my ribs.

I tried to be both: the pot, & the lighter.
Something you would reach for.
I held your tiny fingers, let my own grow unfamiliar.
I drew them, & one-line sketches of your face.
You traced them, in a daze.
Pencil never leaving page–because how could it ever
…………………………………………………..want that escape?

I wanted to be fired, coated in glass.
I thought you could have made me into anything,
and I wanted more than anything
to be something else.

I didn’t know what I was
when I met you & my hands began to sweat,
the only words for girls who want to kiss
girls I knew curses, disintegrations on my
dry and panicked tongue even
as I unfurled it into your mouth & pretended it a safe place.
Every admission I gave you: a drunken intimation &
I’m sorry.
I didn’t know     what I was     when you bought me
that gas-station-rose but I went home
with it staining my face & used
our empty bottle of Sofia wine for a vase.

Did you know how much I ached for you?                              Did I?
Much too late.

You told me no one’s place is
in someone else’s chest & I swear I heard
you even over the sound of my hammering
one into yours.