She had the word love tattooed on her body in 16 different languages. She thought she’d just get it once. As a reminder and nothing more. Then she started to travel, finding it in different parts of the world. Some places, multiple places, were English speaking— but still— so different. in their own way. One flowed. Another, like hard pavement. A cursive font vs a typeface. courier.
With you, I learned to let go softly.
And with you—
With you it was like touching a hot skillet.
A branding that would never go away.
Before, love was like learning how to keep a secret.
Before your father instilled fear in you that somehow your body kept all these years later.
“I do not want someone who doesn’t want me,” I said lightly.
for lightly and softly mean two different things.
I am not used to someone just wanting me around, and not for the purpose of collecting pretty things,
even if dust accumulated on top and in-between the crevices.
Before I would say, “I am good.” As if I believed it, I would repeat it.
But to you I was only good for keeping secrets and hiding things—
push, push them, underneath the rug.
“I am good,” I say now. As I believe it, I repeat it.
“I am good,” I say now—
without the hope you recollect the weight of me,
the lingering taste on your fingers,
or the dream where you still call me home.