[there are a lot of poems i have yet to write—] [—there are a lot of things i have yet to admit]
By Jordyn Damato
and there's a poem in that. You, asleep on my bedroom floor
because you don’t trust our bodies pressed together in a bed
is a poem tucked deeply within itself. When I was a curious
and cautious child and broke lighters open to play with the fluid:
poem. And when I hid the evidence under my sister’s pillow,
her rage the next morning was dressed like a poem. I can run
a mile in maybe 11 minutes if I try really hard and maybe
that’s a poem better left unwritten. When I tell you everything
is fine, the line so overused, I am already writing a new poem.
How much you love Christmas music: poem. How much you love
to laugh in my face: poem. Me wringing out my hands
to drain the sweat you left behind: a damp poem I never
wanted to write. I sleep with my glasses on. I chew
on ice. I’m jealous of my carpet. My words are all I have left.