Sometimes I wrote about the way their lips felt,
how their rough hands made shreds of my skin.
Sometimes I wrote about how empty they made me feel-
empty kisses, hollow bones.
Sometimes it was how empty they are without me
or the awful things they think when they think
no one is listening.
They usually don’t like these kinds of poems-
They are not used to someone looking at them so closely;
They don’t realize that their bones are deeply etched
with a fine print,
something I am very adept at deciphering.
I’ve stopped writing of boys lately
because I have yet to find one
who will look back at me and say,
"I have read your fine print
and I agree to the terms and conditions,”
Even though Section 2, Paragraph 4
tells him that there are days when I will be so sad-
for no reason at all, or maybe for every reason-
that his lips will hold no comfort, his hands no warmth.
And Section 5, Paragraph 1 says that there will be times
when every thing he does that day will make me want to hit him
and Line 7 tells him that sometimes I just don’t feel like saying
"I love you."
He knows that sometimes I will be so unforgivably mean to him
that he will wonder how he ever fell in love
with such a hateful girl
but he will still forgive me because he knows
that I am only so hurtful to him
because I know he is the only one
who will forgive me for such things.
He will look at me
and see me in all my ugliness
and know that my emptiness
is not something he can fill.
And he will still say,