ix. between the lines

spoken word like friends first,

but the night unbuttoned us slow,  

as if our skin had secrets  

our mouths were too afraid to name.  

you touched me like you knew me  

before god taught us shame.  

i let you.  

because you did.

your hands were a shame whisper of cries against guilt,  

a prayer said backwards,  

half-believed.  

i gave all of it to you with all the silence i carried,  

and you swallowed it whole.  

one question remained unsolved, 

what were we doing  

if not breaking the unspoken rules merely for ourselves?

won't you agree?

won't you agree that it was never meant to be this;

not a trembling,  

not a bruise beneath the breath,  

not the kind of closeness that leaves a scar  

even after the body's healed like mine.  

said it didn’t mean anything, say it over and over,

then my heart cracked like it did.

i see you now  

through tiles of memory;

in walks through the doorways, 

in songs played on cigarette breaks,  

in the quiet after laughter dies.  

you flinch like i’m the aftermath  

of a choice you won’t own.  

and maybe i am.

maybe i am, yet i'm afraid to admit it.

i keep thinking;  

if we’d just stopped.  

if i’d just said no.  

if i’d just stayed silent 

and not voicing the confession so forbidden hell won't even allow it.  

but the truth is:  

we needed something to hurt,  

so we wouldn’t have to feel alone.

don't we?

and isn’t that what we are now?  

together in a way that tore us apart.  

reaching for each other  

with hands too guilty to hold.

don't we?

or am i mistaken all of this,

which could mean nothing?