Seventeen.

(I never start at the beginning. I leap into the middle of stories, and now this is something I can not read to you so it will not be finished properly. I don't know where I would have started, but it would have stung you at the second stanza when I began:)

Can you imagine how uncomfortable it must be then,
to be labeled as "The Other Woman"
without having so much as lifted my skirt?
Without even having allowed a single stitch
to thread through the months of quiet space
between my street and his?
No, I am not the girl you're looking for.

You have your own battles, but you will not understand
how the scent of oranges, or the fold of a bird
wrecks me.

Meanwhile, September had me in a Pennsylvania hotel room
sharing a bed with someone who kissed the back of my neck
and whispered "I love you" into my spine.
I came home two days later and hated myself.
Then there was winter and everyone was unattainable
and afraid of something. And it's so tiring, isn't it?
Being afraid of everything and everything being afraid of you.
And I'm sitting here worrying about line breaks
and how I'm supposed to be honest in a room full of strangers.

I don't know how to tell you,
that this isn't what I expected.
That this isn't how I wanted to meet you
for the first time.