I never liked people who call trauma "interesting"
especially in reference to those white raised lines
cascading skin, or young worship of praying
for the hurt to stop in my sleep.
Devoting years to stupid diets,
melting away the jiggle of my thighs,
sometimes when I indulge, my brain receives texts
but I don't reply.
You certainly don't, so why
should we give energy to the notion,
I am only as interesting as my suffering. Saving
ourselves isn't a definitive moment,
though I strive to find purpose within myself,
slivers who I'm meant to be
come through
in conversations with you.
All those years,
living life like an obituary. I want
to show you I'm more than a picture
that told herself shallow things like,
ugly people are a statistic and pretty
people are a portrait-
these things bore me.
But your head resting between my thighs
as I hold you
doesn't
knowing our imperfections
keep us young
doesn't
a meaningful life in love
doesn't.
For my love.
