Give me the novel.
Give me the first date kisses
filled with tongue and
just a hint of teeth.
Give me your one night stands.
Give me your slutty teenage years and your drunken blackouts.
Give me 90% of your secrets, and
keep the other 10 to yourself
so you can hold fast to the lie
that you’re not vulnerable.
Give me your family skeletons
buried in the public park
or your first love’s name
or the words you’re choking on,
those fuck yous swallowed and
left to rot in the farthest corner
of your acid-filled stomach.
Give me the unromantic burning
of your heart. Give me your ulcers.
Give me your cancers, your failures,
the things that wake you
at 2 a.m. and drown your screams
in sweaty regret rolling off your back
and onto my ghosted stomach.
If you love me, give me
the things you are ashamed of.