I’ve played sports for far longer than I’ve written poetry
so as you can imagine,
I’m a ‘go big or go home’ kind of gal.
But for you, I would be the kind of gal that you need, second.
and the kind of gal that I need, first, obviously.
For you, I would make mix CD’s
filled with Ben Kweller, to blast through
the only working speaker in your ‘97 Camry.
For you, I would buy that Rihanna lipstick
aptly titled ‘Spanked’ - like you were in your
old, cold, kitchen
where our lust was steamy, sticky...hot.
For you, I would smile and kiss before morning coffee,
For you, I would work harder to go off of my meds,
For you, I would dance all night in the crowded gay bar
even though you could feel my anxiety thumping harder than the bass.
For you, I would actually look both ways before crossing the street, walk not run,
and absolutely hold open the door for every single person entering the grocery store
- yes, even that asshole that said “hey dyke, nice ass”.
Because you and I are were both brought up with the
‘Kill ‘em with kindness mentality...but when you do, use your shiniest brass knuckles’.
For me...I want to know where that wide smile came from,
and why it is occasionally stopped short.
For me...I want to know what it was like to be raised by parents
who wanted to hear about your bad days.
For me...I want to know why it took you so long to come out of the closet
Even though I absolutely would have hid in there with you for years on end
just to whisper back and forth through
flannels, and hardly worn dresses, and dirty running shoes.
For us, I want more time.
I want longer than 4 days, one long weekend, roughly 96 hours, and two 90 minute drives.
For us, I want more playlists of the songs we listened to in high school,
when we didn’t know that it was okay for girls to kiss girls.
For us, I want more messy shower sex that borderlined waterboarding
your hand on my head, my hands scrambling all over your body.
For us, I want everything...instead of anything.
So bring me back to that old, cold, kitchen.
Show me what it is like in a humid, Ohio, golden hour -
when our lust is steamier, stickier...hotter.
When your lips taste like vodka sodas, sunburn, and dance floor sweat,
when I’m not shaking with fear
that someone is going to bust open that closet door and destroy
our pride parade.
When we can, together, go big and then go home.