Fit, fit, fit xo

I’m learning how to tell stories so I can tell the world your story. I read poems but they fall short of the way your hair falls across your face so I shut the book. You have dirty hands and a sugary heart and convenience store taste in wine. The way you say my name feels like fireworks on an unexpected day, like October 9th or April 22nd. This is a poem about the first time I saw you naked and the night you showed up at my door at 2 a.m. with three tomatoes and a mango. My calendar was rude enough to remind me it’s been 43 days since we last touched. Still, I calculate how long it would take me to walk 2,387 miles and strangely I feel better (598 hours. And 12 minutes).

My body is covered in bruises and sobriety no longer agrees with me. This morning I woke up freezing, covered in debts and unsaid apologies. You wouldn’t like me now. My mouth is this dry graveyard of mistakes. My eyes are clouding over. I’ve been covering up the smell of loss with whiskey and burnt bridges. It’s a nail twisting through the ribs now, it’s all dirty knees and dark tunnels. Still, there is a boy or two trying to love me like fire alarms love buildings they echo through. They don’t understand, love is not a force that can fix or save or heal.