I AM NOT WRITING ABOUT SEX

I haven’t written that poem yet I’ve been putting it off

because I know it’ll poke holes in my skin and then they will bleed

   And it’ll be a whole mess I’m just not ready for

Maybe I’ll write about sex or something (I rarely write about sex) but I’m not sure

how well I can speak on that

I could write more about the Garden; the Kitchen; the Stockroom but I just

don’t think it means that much anymore; as much as it did

What’s up with me and gardens? well my heart is still in that tunnel

that connected the laundry room and the coat closet and I know

you have no idea what I’m talking about but just

try and keep up okay

The line before this is about my mother’s father’s house

planted at the shore and the line before that is about

someone that asked me “What’s up with you and gardens”

                 and then wrote about a garden

So I guess I won’t write about the Garden; maybe the city

or the guilt or the other girl? No I’m tired of seeing the words when I’d rather

         let them air dry I know they will shrink with the heat

And they are some of my best words (I write a lot of good ones but these are some of my best)

so if I were to let them soil they will not get the wear they deserve!

I could write about a friend but I’m not sure how well I can speak on him

or if it means that much anymore: “friend”

Plus I haven’t been to the Garden because it’s much too cold now

and my skin is too tight and everything is too loud

But it might be nice to visit alone for the first time; no body on the bench

   It’s just me (and maybe my mom)

I could write about her! but she doesn’t want to hear what I want to say

   She would always tell me if you don’t have anything nice to say, just give up

But I’m home now so that’s all hot and fresh

I could write about Jersey but I only write about Jersey when I’m

running from something this time it doesn’t really feel like I’m running from anything

Which is maybe why I miss Rosewood so much and the armchair

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