I ceased to belong to myself
the moment I met you.
My name sounds too foreign, too alien
yet, say it once — even in a whisper
and I’m home.
(Fun Fact: These ears collect my name from your lips;
it’s in that clear-glass jar
swimming with the sands of time.)
My hands are not mine
they are slaves that itch to uncover
those parts you always hide
—tucked at the sleeve and hem
of insecurities that with my touch
like flakes of dead skin
My hands are slaves.
My spine is yours to summon
ask for a hug—it concaves
beg for my touch—it convexes
cry like a little child whose balloon slips
from chubby hands
and my spine stands erect
firmly planted so that you can lean
and still weep without falling.
My pen’s ink is a devout lover
each stroke it fills,
each space it occupies on the sheet
your quirks, your moods,
just so no doubt could ever cloud
what it is I mean when I write
those three words.