a host of problems

the thing about surrounding yourself
with the people you most admire,
i'm tired of being in love with everyone
and never growing close enough
and i'm tired of being disgusted by the rest

i hate that i can't connect fast enough,
deep enough to satisfy
whatever childish expectations
i am driven by

and i hate that i want to talk
about it
fuck it
not only is love a bad word
my people have borders
and we can talk about illnesses
and menstruation and
botched affairs

but i am squeezing a pillow
trying to wrestle myself back to sleep
in the early morning
desperately remembering the sight of
your long proud torso in a tight
gray shirt, almost masculine its
so carved and V-shaped as
yr poised on a barstool

i hear shared laughter and
i see shoulder blades sliding under your skin
in some self-erasing fantasy
i still silently call love when i'm telling myself
what not to do.