L. told me that many years ago

and now I cannot lift

the cardboard moving boxes.

I do the same thing with you:

I’m six years old again

and I trust a man who explains

that I’m a sweet girl.

My girlfriends love each other.

They kiss

and they hug

in decadent places

and we don’t care

that the roof is dripping

or that people are

throwing up

all around us.

 

L., for example,

assured me that she

knows me for real,

that I don’t need to seduce her.

I believe her

because all men

want to save me

when I have nightmares

but none of them think

that my poems are good.

It’s different with L.,

I call her

when I leave your place,

she cries on my shoulder

while I kiss her through her hair.

 

We know each other

for real,

so much that we can actually

touch

each other’s pain.