Devotion

It took me three months to learn to hate you.
I had to translate your textmessages
three times
because "I don’t know how to live without you"
definitely didn’t mean "I love you",
probably didn’t mean "I miss you",
and almost didn’t mean "I’m going to kill myself".

It took three months to realize
that I was not responsible for your happiness,
that the word "break-up" was not ether,
was not a cloud,
could not be blown away by a strong gust of devotion.

I kept tasting that word in my mouth,
wondering if it was even real
because I had said it
so many times
that it didn’t seem like my language anymore.

In those three months I cried —
once for each time we fucked,
twice for every time we made love and
six times for every time you asked for my lips.

It took me six months to realize I missed you.

I tried to forget the way you bought me
from myself with wilted words.
I tried to forget the weight
of your love on my shoulders.
I tried to forget the scars
left in places no one can see.
But I could never forget the sex.

I could never forget
the way you made me into clay,
explained topology with our bodies
that I still can’t comprehend.

I remember every equation
you worked out
using my back as your white board.

I still remember the first time
I called myself your own,
the first time you sunk your teeth into my flesh
and the way you peeled back a chrysalis
to expose a very kinky butterfly
holding me up against the wall.

I remember how you taught me
to beg for the trail
of a solitary finger up my spine,
to whimper convincingly
when you held my hands above my head.

I remember the way you taught me
to leave perfect circle bruises in my arm,
muffling my voice,
so you wouldn’t have to tell the difference between
a scream of pain or
one of pleasure.

And, while every other part of us was broken and shattered,
I remember the way you made me feel whole and perfect.

It took me 9 months to understand what had happened to me.

I am the only species of butterfly that undergoes
multiple metamorphoses,
that builds cocoon after cocoon because
I'm not happy with the color of my wings.

Your fingerprints still cover me like a blanket.
Your fingerprints are my skin
and I am slowly sloughing off
these dead cells hoping that
the layer underneath is untainted
but it never is.

I will always smell like your shampoo,
I will always fuck like I am looking for you.
Every moan from my mouth is a prayer in your name.

I have tried to forget you.
But how can I forget the man who clapped a collar on my neck
and called me a "good girl"?

It took me a year.

It took me a year before I knew that I was broken.
It took two boys and a vintage apron.
It took one long look in the mirror.
It took a gag reflex to realize that I will never get rid of you.

You are my shadow,
you are the soles of my shoes.
You are every insecurity I have ever had,
every boy from 1st through 12th grade who thought
I was yucky, or
ugly or
frigid.

Your fingerprints are my skin and
I miss you and
I hate you and
I am forever handcuffed to your memory.

I didn’t realize when you bought me
that I had given you a warranty —
10 years or 100,000 tears,
whatever comes last.

Sometimes I wish you had stopped writing threats
and taken them to your wrists instead.
Sometimes I wish we could fuck
one more time.

Mostly, I wish I had never met you.
I count our time together not in months
but in the names of people you stole me from.
I count my pain not in tears
but in months.

I thought I would count my healing in the faces of those
who see me as whole.
But I cannot keep my cracks hidden.
Your fingerprints are my skin and
my willpower is a cloud.

I miss you.
I hate you.
I will count my pain in months.