• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 05


I was afraid of
the least scary thing
someone could give me.

My eyes widened,
I leaned back.
“This isn’t for me, sorry.”
I thought of you
as I stumbled away.

Coy messages,
high fives,
birthday donuts
left on patio chairs.

A glance here,
shared music there,
stories scattered
between the sheets.

I learned to accept less,
false starts, hushed tones,
deafening silence.

Ambling along the crumbs
you laid down, I look up.
Sometimes, you wave.



One day, I held my feelings in my hand.
I closed my eyes, rolled them around,
popped them in my mouth.

I ran my tongue over your edges,
and I accepted every groove.
I waited for you to do the same.

I tried to savor every morsel,
but I didn’t get time to recall
what goodness tastes like.

You gave me scraps—
he comes to me whole.
I refuse to go hungry again.