Do you remember the mornings we spent in bed,
the sun caressing your porcelain skin,
your veins as visibly blue as your eyes,
your words as delicate as your linen,
how we took our tea differently,
yours much sweeter,
and spoke quietly the poems we kept folded
inside our
The tablecloth held tight to stains,
scrubbed to no avail,
reminding me of how many mornings you spent alone,
undressing in the cold bathroom,
observing yourself under florescent lighting—
biting your tongue until the bitter taste of blood
filled your
The windows were streaked from poor cleaning,
the curtains permanently pushed aside,
for you were never a fan of secrets,
and I watched as you spun around the yard,
missing the days when inadequate was nothing more
than what mommy called daddy,
and your dresses were all ironed and pressed—
and I still
hope you know how much I understood.

Do you remember the nights you crawled up the bed,
kissing me toe to head,
asking if I thought you were beautiful,
as if you weren’t the most exquisite creature I have ever
and under dim lights, I could feel your smile
resting on my chest,
your fingers running over my arm,
my uneven breathing
touch with you.
The sheets were too scratchy
some nights,
your voice sounded too much like a hum
some mornings,
and understanding
wasn’t always
easy to do.
We kissed goodnight,
forgetting we were different,
ignoring your tea with six sugars,
disregarding your hate for my poems,
falsely accepting all the times
you ran
I loved you more than love itself,
and you loved all the attention I could give,
and all the mornings in bed
were only depressed limbs afraid to move,
and the nights ended early
wanting to die,
and the single kiss goodnight held too much tension,
by all we’ve been fooled by.
Your dresses were wrinkled,
I was inadequate,
and the florescent lighting never showed you
the way you wished it would,
and the stains on the tablecloth spilled onto the carpet,
as the curtains grew tired and fell shut,
and we folded the poems back into our skulls,
and drank
our tea in separate lives.

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