Sorry

It was sweet
In that 'should I or should we just hug'
Kind of a way.

I shouldn’t have let those nightly phone calls
Trick me into thinking that
You only wanted to talk.
I should have worn that disgusting orange hoodie
And maybe you’d have changed your mind.

“It’s not you
It’s me”
Was invented for reasons like this.
I just wish I could tell you
What it is about me
That’s so wrong.

Maybe it’s the idea
Of allowing another oily-haired, zit-faced being
As annoyingly quirky
As habitually dirty
As forgetful and selfish as myself
To smear their DNA across the inside of my lips.

Maybe it’s the memory
Of that very first time
Little girls fantasize about
As they rub plastic lipstick across their smiles
And name the names of the cutest boys in first grade.

Because I was still a little girl
That was never given the chance
To plan the person and place and color of roses
That would bleed between his fingers
As he stood in my doorway.

My first was the kind left out of fairy tales
And instead, compartmentalized into files
Of potential allegations
That never broke the cold seal
Of my own deepest thoughts.

It was a passionate death.
With all the violence love has to offer.
Only I didn’t love him
[And he hated me]

It was the kind of first
That leaves a taste on your tongue
That you know isn’t yours,
But doesn’t swallow with the lump in your throat.

It was the kind of first
That I dreamt about
Every night
Until I stopped pretending to be a child.

It was the kind of first that began with an open-mouthed gasp
And continued in tongue-filled tumbles and
Awkward submission 
And ended with lips sewed shut.

I never spoke a word.

And maybe
It just hurts too much
To cut out the stitches

And try it again.