and it was a twisted

confusion of memory that

made me put on my

bruises and cuts again for you to

examine like playing doctor

in the five year old summers,

popsicle staining scraped knees.

I don't know if what we did today

was kissing, tongues playing together

in a hollow testament to what you

pretend might be love and those

whispered three words mean nothing

except promises of fast cars and fast girls

(even though you would never admit

that that's what you're after).

so why am I still wrapping my

fingers around yours, heart pressed

to my ear, as heavy as drum lines,

and yet so easy for me to break

in one tender snap of fingers, click

and you could be gone.

so snap your four-framed photobooth

polaroids now, while my lips bleed

red for you and I hide the tears

with ever streaking mascara.

but be careful, I like kissing boys.

and that's plural.