In another wold,I line up the boys I have loved and

tell them, “It was good to know you”. And they say, “It was good to be known,

by you,it was nice being written about.It was nice and warm there,tucked away

in secret among the pages of your journal.”

(In this other world. My journal is a thick black smear. I have blotted out the indistinguishable blur of unhappy there.)

And he calls me beautiful again, but now not by way of consolation,so this time I

smile,I still wear it smeared around my mouth a year or two later when you

come by.So this time we have more time. We have time left over now that the

redundancy of our “stop being sad” is no longer here.

There,I learn to thread together soft silences by something other than tremor.

Not fear,not hurt,not regret. There you hold me and i brush away the hurt from

your eyes the way I always dreamed I would. I reach out with bare arms and


with them full of hope. A little of you.

Then I go home and dream away the good part of a summer.I wake to the

warm dreaming still caught on my eyelids but feel no need to blink them off.

This time I say,hi it is nice to meet you and I smile without wondering why. I do

not run but I teach my feet new  patterns all over again. This time my mind does not somersault away to space.

I go back to spreading branches of a sad tree that isn’t sad here and isn’t sad anymore

and I sing myself to sleep when the moon sets.

In this world I love without screaming why without gasping how this time the

men I loved know I did and do not look at me with anything but gratitude,and I

say thank you too.


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