Bloom, Shifting

11.

11.

Elliot walks two and a half steps

ahead of me at all times

her pace off beat. She never stops at

street corners for me. I am

too slow. Her legs are long and

wrap around me with strands of

moonlight. Silver and marble

she is strong.

There are days when she forgets,

forgets to meet me for lunch and forgets

I hate the sound of ice against teeth.

She can never remember I am allergic to wool and

can't kiss her when she wears it. She forgets

that sometimes I am afraid to kiss her.

I always want to call her Elle because

it sounds so good with coffee and a biscuit in

the sleepiness of morning.

She burns my tongue and is always

too warm. I wait for her too cool, wait

so she is perfect. Then I drink her in

all at once.

This is what I think of

in the darkness.

No one uses the showers,

and I crawl back to my room.

I am not seen.

My sobs are silent.

I do not even dry myself off

just pull on jeans and a sweater.

I am soaking,

my hair freezes in the

cold winter air.

I walk to Elliot's.

She opens her door,

slow with sleep.

Ava, she asks,

then looks at me

fully, for real.

She sees my frozen hair,

how I'm not wearing

socks or a coat; I'm freezing.

On the stoop of her apartment,

I tell her.

The word

rape

does not ever pass my lips

But she knows.

She can see

and I am afraid

she will never say

I look like summer

ever again.