on learning to be your own lover

on learning to be my own lover

i hold the hand of my 2nd grade self

i squeeze it and her eyes get wide

maybe i see constellations holding them together

i tell her she’ll never lose her wondering

but i don’t tell her that it will sometimes lose its romance

that sometimes she’ll just drown in it

i don’t tell her that the therapist calls that generalized anxiety

one day she’ll be made to feel unworthy

and she’ll remember that she is nothing, too

one day she’ll wake up in the creases of unwanted

and the shitty fabric of the sheets will remind her of the night before

she will have smelled the truth

so strong on his breath

but here is the point where she will realize

she has always been a better liar than she pretends to be

and in the morning

her tongue reeks of dishonesty as well

if they were playing a game

[they were, its called trying to find love]

she would tell her self she is winning because she went so far

as to lie to herself

she will wonder if brushing her teeth harder will help

if reaching all the way 

back into her throat will clean and erase

the cry that will crawl out

the howl 

the hollow

and one day she’ll notice more chocolate chips on her arms, more sun spots than before

she’ll remember she hasn’t noticed all of herself in a while

and that she is constellations, galaxies, and everything, too

and then, there is a small hand in my own

and i feel ashamed

because i have never

    all this time

been alone