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Sarina Jul 2013
Your two syllables
swirl upon each other like strawberries and cream,

I speak it. There is drool chasing my chin.
Talking to yourself is mostly talking to your
two separate halves, or the two girls you’ve loved.

In there, there is you
but mostly it is our two halves of you
and how your name’s the same but can be divided.

Oh my love, my sweetheart, my strawberry touch
the part of you that is mine is so beautiful
                              it has filled my whole heart.
Sarina Jul 2013
The first boy who saw me with my shirt off
did not like girls, not yet
not ever

and asked me if it was stretch marks or cuts
decorating where
other men would soon touch

as if he were wondering
the color of my eyes. (Blue or grey, maybe.)
Sarina Jul 2013
When I was working,
I denied the men access
so they might **** me.
Sarina Jul 2013
Music pulls me into its arms,
made a bed for me in this sea of white noise

and for some reason,
it makes sense to sing about crying too
loud or unpacking suitcases or
open windows or
a spider’s web when you are as sad as I am.

It comes and it goes
as saltine waves or a heartbeat or drumming.

I wait for the day when I will become
a mermaid, able to breathe
underwater everything I have ever felt.

Tonight my body does not want to sleep, but
drown in a song of existence.

She floods my ears
through removing lesser known parts of me.
Sarina Jul 2013
He thanked me like a mother finding
her lost child, could not even kiss me back he felt so
relieved. I did not want to be
the one to ask if he remembered how it felt
for us to become distant and alone, even together
because I knew now
an idea he had about fidelity. He said he believed he
could be faithful to both of us in our special,
different ways. Neither existed in
writing as more than “she” or “her” or “mine”
but now he cannot kiss me. He liked it better when I
was a sculpture he was familiar with every
arch of, he liked it better when
I was in his left pocket and she was there in the right.
He thanked me because he is so happy he
still has something to empty out
of his jeans before the wash. This is a feeling of
release, not solid enough for me to let go of his hand.
Sarina Jul 2013
This was supposed to be the poem I wrote without any reference to
my love for you, but it seems the only pretty things
I can say are about us.

I question what you have never wondered about, but
somehow I wonder because of you.

How is it that we survived last summer’s big rainstorm without an
umbrella, and were motionless under it
until you shook me so I would remember to breathe.

Thinking
I have never slid my arm into a man’s sweater when I got cold,
put the other ***’s fabric around my body,

would have been nice that night.

But it could not have been so bad. I peeled my wet clothes off
like a tease, wishing that somehow you
could be watching me through the closed bathroom stall.

Soon
I don’t know if it was you or the blankets
that swallowed my hips, as if being inserted underground,
I just know that six hours later I woke up sore from feeling so safe.

From you, I learned that no one can rewind seasons
to take back mean words or return pine trees their old cones

and the next time you call
I should thank you for telling me what you have for breakfast each
morning, what you make for dinner and midnight snacks.
Sarina Jun 2013
I used to hear the moths tapping my blinds at night
but chose to believe it was you instead,
getting out of the shower, hearing the doorbell ring, I would
pretend it was you having come to visit me.

Eventually bought a compass for the curtains
because I wanted to see
what direction the rocks you threw were coming from.

Well, the thing never moved
eternally pointed south, and I wondered if distance could be
silent when our love is so ******* loud
but it seems I had only fallen for the moths at night.

Moonlight gives us fainting spells
the fall changed your face shape, touches your white back
until it is as freckled as Planet Earth itself.
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