The sad side of town

Where I'm comfortable

Let's talk about where I'm comfortable with you.

The bench in the park,

the grocery store,

my stairwell,

the porch swing,

and a table at the coffee shop two blocks away;

the one with the great blueberry scones.

I know it's not enough.

I know there are nights when our hearts

are burning through the cotton in our shirts

and your tongue is hungry for the red at the back of my throat,

but this is all I know how to offer for now.

I am 21 years old and still flinch at the word "bedroom."

My hands turn over like a washing machine,
waiting for
another's fingers to snag onto,

but keep coming up empty.

And for so long, I believed this was better for me

because it hurt less than undressing this disaster.

It doesn't mean I love you any less,

it just means my body sees bed

and my brain says "run."

Couch,

parent's room,

dark basement,

crowded bar stool,

bed of a pickup truck;

the back of my own bones.
I still am too scared of myself
to let anyone else in,

but I promise,

I'm leaving the door creaked open