Each time my feelings change about you
I am sure that how I feel is permanent, that I have
figured you out, laid hold upon some truth
that a 'why' within me found your 'because',
a purpose for having known and loved you.

Underexposed,
your light-tight heart, your foggy eyes,
your voice that never cracks.
You will not grab hold. You will not look into it.
You will not say one way or the other.
You settle like spoiled milk.

I type these words, bleeding out the need to see you
whole,
as if my heart could beat for us both.

I have yet to deliver you
from the bloody slippery life within me.
I can not push that hard.
You are stuck in my valves and curves,
you push against my rib cage, you make it hard to breathe.
My monthly blood is no excuse; it gives me no extra right.
It is just fuel for the old rage and love and disappointment.

Your precious confusion, I've held it too long to my breasts.
They are sore from your sucking.
We are broken. A cast of unspoken intent could never mend a thing.
We, the word does not even seem applicable.
Writing, stretching out the pain, letting it breathe a little -
I can only hope to learn, to survive you.