It's not a teenage thing, they tell me.
It's an ugly thing. Grown thing.
Love. Love, love, love!
Like so much trash; my feelings
discarded upon the floor, like so much dirty tissue.
I cannot help, but wonder
what is love? If it isn't a young thing.
Pure thing, on your arm.
Never me. Not Pretty. Not Pure.
These fat thighs, the white fingers of a giant
These porcelain pot-belly.
This heart; that felt love already.
Used Thing. Corrupted Thing.
Grown Thing. Have I become love?
He always says, "you're a wonderful person... but."
But, but, but-
an awful word-
I'm just not for him.