From Reluctantly Prospective Emotional Reynold's Wrap

What scares the shit out of me  
is the fact  
that you were all I could think about,  
even while I held her.  
 
Last night's emotional charade  
would have been one for the books,  
with her pretending she knew me  
and me pretending I didn't mind that.  
I only want to tell you about it  
with my hands over my face,  
laughing into my  
fingers  
with all the freedom to run them through your hair -  
to tell you about how playing with hers  
did nothing to me,  
and her absolute innocence  
and inability to kiss  
would have normally had me a little dizzy  
with want,  
and how the only want I felt  
was how wet I got  
from physical ache  
(if that's an ache we have a gunshot)  
to touch and feel something in her;  
how the only thing that kept me  
from trying to get her to go home for as long as I did  
was the unreality that made me hope  
I'd find something real -  
that strangeness in touching someone who said she  
had liked me since the first week of school  
with hands that felt pretty much  
nothing  
when they were very much supposed  
to feel something.  
 
I searched around for a while,  
but around eight  
I figured she had no pieces  
even remotely similar to you,  
and I got bored,  
and she wasn't even that attractive,  
so I  
insisted on taking her home.  
I said I was worried about  
my parents walking in,  
but they wouldn't have cared.  
I just wanted to be alone.  
 
She was  
too sweet for me;  
too vulnerable,  
not in the delicious way  
(I earned  
your vulnerability:  
fascinating, rare,  
beautiful;  
I lured it in,  
chased and tracked and domesticated it  
with some innate, manual talent for  
getting deep under your skin,  
whether  
you'd like to admit it or not). I'm more used to guys -  
riding them in passenger seats  
and getting bent over center consoles by their hungry hands;  
more comfortable with my naked skin  
than my naked heart.  
Being fucked by men  
who couldn't care less about how I felt  
has always left me refreshed,  
thrilled,  
sometimes even  
satisfied.  
Trying to play along with that girl  
and her Eskimo kisses and love-words  
left me  
more than a little broken.  
 
That was the first time I tried on emotional intimacy  
since you and I  
became one another's  
respective exceptions.  
Maybe the sick stomach I have now  
at the thought of her knowing who I really am  
(too close way too close)  
is case-specific.  
Maybe I could love many hearts  
like I love many hands,  
but as of now,  
I strongly prefer  
the choosy little monster  
in your chest  
to anyone else's.