The Words by Z’monii G. Davis

This voice is hoarse from
overuse, lips chapped from the cool
silences that greet
bruises from the war. At first

in our time together
you’d murmur love
yous then you grew
bold, saying them as we kissed
goodbye, hello, the in-betweens. As I brought
food into the place we’d call
home (yours
or mine). They creep
from your lips early
in the sunset, late with the stars while you forgot
I am an insomniac. The day

I started saying them, you were
not there, I was probably
three or so – yet being
a late bloomer perhaps five. As slow
as I learned them was as slow as I forgot. The day
I learned that they could be used
as a weapon as much as power in the right hands. I found
appreciation in the numbness this. You

only whisper them now
when you think you’ve lost. When
you’re sure the last time is the last
time because the beginning has
almost all the letters to make the end. They come
with a cost. It’s cute
that my tendencies are rubbing off. Laying in

my bed, you try to talk
to get me to share things I haven’t
told anyone. You must have
thought you were permanent. My person
knows. My brother knows. They are going
to stay. You (I push off at daybreak) roll
over and say you’re late
for biology. I take chemistry. So you pick, poke, jab
and stab, asking question after question, praying
to your god for more than two
sentences. If you were my brother, my person, my sister,
this wouldn’t be so hard. You’d know the questions
to ask. They didn’t start off knowing, but I didn’t help them
along the way.

“Have you always slept with so many pillows?
No
Why Now?
I’m an adult.
Oh.”

You can’t read me. You don’t know
me yet; my two truths, three
if you’re good at this game.

This is where I like us, right here.
You still stay, still say the words
though now you don’t
expect a, the, response.

 

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