walked myself in circles around the park beside the synagogue 
and tried on a different way to run. wrote two lines of a poem and realized i couldn't be happy for you, 
next, i'll invent the wheel, or maybe a new language, 
one where it's easy and sounds exactly like
i'm sorry. 
still rectifying that i think you really meant it when you said i don't love you, i just like you 
and fear you. how to gesture to other parts of self? say but you held me warmly, my portable heater, one who 
grocery shops, finds pun on every package, pulls shoes so sweetly from off of my feet.
with your head resting on my thigh, i scrape your hair into fist and am sacred 
at mistaking maladjustment for having known better. i believe men live inside my body
say boo when i am lonely, mid-nap when i am tucked between the crossing path of limbs.
all i want is to get my tongue on your teeth again, licking the map of yours, 
to be fingers that make you bleed, to pick off wax, and make you bleed once more. i imagine you’ll flush 
with rage and knowing, skin pricking and lifting without remorse.