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.