Poem: What’s safe(st) to take?

For a long time

I would not go to bed.

I got used to it.

You probably remember those months

where I slept in your lap.

I dripped poetry while you dripped paint

and we dipped our finger tips

in wax

and pinched our skin black.

You would speak

and I would tell you

the taste of it.

For old time’s sake,

Which part of your body

Does this poem go to?

Your fingers or teeth,

The top of your chest,

your throat? Does it touch your face?

I thought you were brave in your

Woman’s jeans, but I found

more comfort in your whimpering screams

in the dark.

Our words were soothing

For each other. Then what?

You told me what was safe to take

And what not to take, or do.

But who told you?

For as long as I let it. And I do.

Despite it being our only home

and our new family.

If that stranger above

our window ever jumps.

I’ll come back for you,

and this time I’ll tell you!

I’ll tell you not to take it

and I’ll tell you what to do.