Don’t meet. Don’t meet my. Don’t
meet my eyes. Don’t eye me in my mine. Don’t make. Don’t make me meet you.
Don’t we meet that day you made me. Don’t we make something mean. Don’t make it
mean more. Don’t mess. Don’t mess me. Don’t mess with mine.
Mine is a small white moment in
the middle of a blizzard when and if I scoop bitten hands around a round of ice
and offer it up to you and say mine,
mine, this was mine but here,
here, for you.
For you I would have worn only
high heels and lace aprons to dinner. For you I would have licked every bit of
grime from your skin and left – in that clean swipe – a message. For you I
would have lain little and skilled at the center of the bed and clicked my
black eyelashes like claws.
Claws. Nails. Jawlines. Dances.
The silt at the bottom of my glass. Amber bits in my plastic hair. I’m your
moon-faced lady. I’m your marionette. The thrill of the thought. Records on
loop and hearing his breath in the between. School. Morning. Glare. Skirts. The
lockbox I labeled for you.
For you I would have. For you.
For you I have. For the you that asked if I would do things. For the everything
I did. For I did. For doing. For done. For having done you wrong. For having
done wrong. For the wrong you. For the you I done. For the have. For the you I
have..
— Jess Smith