here, take my hand, in spring we dance

a poem for Quyen

I am tired of being angry, my
dear. i am tired of deadening
your listening ears with stories
about my ex and her abusers
and my friends and their abusers
and child abuse and sexual assaults
and other forms of gender violence.

How many queer women  

out there are carrying stories

about the men

hauntingly

apologetically 

because violence was inflicted onto
them they are not going to depend on
vengeance and indignation to feel safe

forgetfulness coded as healing coded as

giving up coded as moving on

this is trauma: folded into the size of

our palm, pushed down our throat, we

swallow it dry like a pill promised to

get us better, we are not

better, just

forgetful

hauntingly forgetful

with a lot of questions the answers

never bother coming along willingly

like why are we nervous, stressed out,

silent, disoriented, tearful, drunk, smoking,

doing drugs, failing, quitting jobs, fucking

around, afraid, afraid, afraid, uncertain,

vomiting, starving, cutting, crying to sleep,

sleeping all day, trying to fix douchebags, being

preyed on, abused, abused, abused,

emotionally, psychologically, physically

have we become abusers yet ourselves

or did the girl cry wolf

if the girl fucking cries wolf, there is only %2 chance
that she lies. the wolf came, it did
come and it wears a man’s face standing protected alongside
those coming to condemn the girls’ lies

i am so sorry, my love, I am exhausted and
exhausting, my mood swings abruptly from
smiling and dancing around performing
feminine gestures and sounds into muffled
screams and homicidal thoughts. before you,
my anger is what kept me going I am not leaving
until this world is cleaned of monsters with sadistic
smiles and blood on the corners of their mouths.
before you I only know love when damaged girls
and sad boys fell onto my laps, I tried to put the
pieces of us together like solving a puzzle; these
broken needles etched upon my veins three inches 
too shallow to get me addicted. I said “sorry love 
didn’t fucking save us please disappear" 

and they did, they disappear with their love
their pain remains

I am so sorry, my love. at times I hear you crying

from the other side of a thick wall of glass. the

human emotions that I grew wary of, the last time

I cried it was for a pain that wasn’t mine. I am so

sorry my love, my love is too easily attainable at

times I wonder if I too has mistaken love with the

tenderness of a constant wound this world drapes

upon the female body once every full moon. do i

mean “I love you” to all the sad strangers like “i

see your pain” or do I mean “yes, I love you

despite the pain or do I mean “I love pains”

or do I mean “we are both pains”

here’s the thing:

love is not supposed to be painful. don’t trust

people and films and suicidal music or teen magazines that

set you up for wounds. they are the wolves that came. Cry

as they come.

here’s another thing: you are not meant to fix brokenness

or damaged goods. you are not meant to be broken open

just so empathy can flow out of you like juice or blood from

a wounded crack, born or made, given or inflicted.

I am so sorry, my love. this was supposed to
be a love poem about you, the trips we took, the
journeys we shared. how about this, here’s you, sleeping
with your head crooked on the head of the passenger’s seat
one early morning we took a road trip from Los Angeles to
the Bay; the blue sky runs a world-wide marathon
triumphing the ever-ending highways. here’s the sun and
the wind, shades of green surrounding us with everlasting
fields and flowers and the spring they bring. it
didn’t hide the sign to camp Pendleton the military
base the refugee camp the preservation of Native land
once upon a time, thousands of people who look like
your parents and my parents arrived I am not so sure
if the camp is currently unoccupied.

I am so sorry, my love, would you love me more if
I know any less about the horrors running in the soil
in every tree branches, in the air we breathe; how else can
we celebrating a fine spring day, how can I make a
beautiful poem about love if all that ever uttered
from my mouth is always remnants of crimes so foul.

I am in love, but it is never a matter of love; so fiercely
may it give me the strength to create and find beauty
with you in a world shaped by apologies

I am grateful for you, my love, for holding my cold hands

and listening to me when my voice resembles much

more of crying, for asking questions rather than giving

answers for what I am not sure if I’m asking, for staying

still and yet finding me here.

______________________________________