Painting self-portraits on the third date
We are sitting
on your bedroom floor
and I am telling you
a story
fragments of a
flawed self-portrait
spilling out of my mouth
and onto the carpet.
I usually don't make
this kind of mess
but there was
something gentle
about the way
you pulled my shirt down
and asked
if everything was okay.
Parts of me softened
and the past slid up
from where it was buried
and now
the ground is littered
with grocery lists
of drugs and disorers
and bathrooms I've cried in
and reasons why
I'm afraid to hold
your hand.
The room
is fragrant with memory
and old wounds
and at some point
the words dry up
and a sharp edged silence
carves out a space
between us.
I don't expect
you to stay'sitting amidst
this mess
of broken parts
but you do
and then
you touch my hand
and you say
it's okay
to go slowly.
And so
we begin
again.