Our Ability To Know About Ourselves And

His Fingers Leave Streaks Of Cold On My Skin, Invisible To The Eye, And I Think About Wrapping His Shirt Around My Fist And Pulling Him In To Kiss Me; I Think About Pressing Myself Against Him, But I Can't, Because All Our Secrets Would Keep A Space Between Us.

In The Days That Follow, It's Movement, Not Stillness, That Helps To Keep The Grief At Bay.

As A Teenager, I Put A Lot Of Pressure On Myself, And A Lot Of That, For Me, Was About Finding A Moral High Ground. As I've Grown Up, I've Decided To Abandon That Because It Made Me Judgmental And Also Stressed Me Out.

Blood Is A Strange Color. It's Darker Than You Expect It To Be.

He Is Strong, And Lithe, And Certain. And He Is Mine.