In, over, underInside me,you don't feel like anything.Over me,I can't see your face.Under me,you feel weak.Skin on skin.Your hands slither.Your face contorts.Your breath quickens.I stay silentand numb.Inside me,you don't feel like anything.Is this what it's all about?
BlindedIn all the picturesthere are shadowsunder my eyes,like every memoryof you has accumulatedunder them and theyweigh heavy there.I see youeven when I'd rathernot.I see you,and everything hurts.I see you,and the lights are too bright.I don't want tosee you anymore.
This is what I rememberThis is what I remember:First, nervous fumbling in the front seat of a car in the parking lot in the dark.Then, the steady rise and fall of our breath and his lips and his hands and what I wanted them to do.And surreptitious touching when we were supposed to behave but needed to feel the other's skin.That's all I want to remember. It is too painful to think about everything else. The things I believed were real. The words exchanged, the laughter, the little nods of encouragement
and he said "love" once? No, not that.Because the only thing about it that was real was his skin and his lips and his hands and the want I felt when I looked at him. That was true. I do not want to remember anything else.