I was fourteen, Richard was eighteen,
and he was Romeo in the high school play.
He was Romeo and I was chorus, and
every song I sang, I sang for him.
Every song I sang, a love song.
I had never been taught any other,
I had never been taught to be hard,
I longed to give him everything,
I longed for him to want to kiss me,
to give me everything, and when
he kissed me, which he did, he gave
me mono. I was somehow proud,
was proud of getting sick because
he kissed me, as if it were a badge
that I was worthy of being kissed,
kissed by Richard, Richard Smith, who left me
shortly after, who left me crumpled, weeping
in the green cement block halls,
halls that rang back all my emptiness.
I didn’t know then love could end.
I was a girl who knew only beginnings,
a girl who trusted in happily evers,
a girl who wanted to be chosen. Years later
I’d learn there are many kinds of love,
how all of them depend on one thing.
Years later I’d learn to choose myself,
to show up at my own balcony,
roses and poems in hand.