I am seventeen and I still blush when a
Foreign hand runs up my leg and I won’t cry unless I’m in
A running shower, naked and vulnerable and alone.
No, you can’t look at me unless I close my eyes.
Seventeen, and holding hands makes me nervous,
So do crowds larger than six and disappointed tones.
Please, please don’t look at me, your eyes scare me.
Seventeen, and I cry over flowers with broken stems
And birds with broken wings and kids with broken families,
But I can’t think about it all at once because
I’ll be a wreck for weeks and
Did you know I’m still sorry that exposed that roll of film?
Here, break my heart in atonement.
Seventeen years old and I still remember that once
In grade school, kids played sick games with my tears
By telling me sad stories and it worked because
The one thing I’m really good at one-hundred
percent of the time is being sad.