Fingernails dirty from metro seats and old church door handles.
Hand twitching as yours pressed mine down those white hostel bed sheets.
The same all-day meals of kiosks and ginger-flavored water.
Wrapped around your body at night, sleep felt like a thief of time.
Once I got there, I itched to tear my two-way ticket in two.
But the week ended, and I am sleeping in my house again.
Not hearing my name from your lips for a while does things to me.
I slow into a book bound in skin, with white fleshy pages-
they’re blank and the ink of fingerprints can be washed by rain.
I tore out the only chapter I’ve ever written for you.
Got to the airport and stuffed it in my pocket for the flight.
The rainwater that I carry smudged it and got to my throat.
But you have got to understand the situation I’m in.
Imagine loving a person and being scared of people.
I write my anger, lick the pages, and count the calories.
I guess my happiness wound up somewhere in the lost and found.
I’ve started telling myself to not let people read my skin.
To not write my name onto their lips and have it be washed down.
And this world might have made me hate my ink, rip out my pages.
But, fuck. Listen to me say I want to write more stories with you.