[20280-blog]

I swear you left me a hungry girl, a buzzing girl, unfurling girl A writhing thing, a bitten thing I swear I am walking around with your breath in place of mine I swear I am walking around still wrapped up in your bedsheets  I swear, I swear, I swear I am certain that after this, I will always want more I thought I reeked of want before, but it wasn't ever like this It wasn't this slow drip It wasn't this honeycomb, this sweetness My wanting tender as it is vicious I know that's not enough for you, or maybe you've decided you are not enough for me I'm still not sure, but of this I am positive: I opened up a little bit each time like those flowers that close themselves at night.

On hope and desire and everything in-between, M. Nyamweya

[20280-blog]

I came home at seven in the morning. Your sister who’s living with you indefinitely would be showing up soon and neither one of us wanted to navigate that particular interaction. You seemed sorry or like you felt guilty for asking me to leave so early, but I am nothing if not understanding of familial weirdness. I’d barely slept, and I briefly considered ‘not hearing’ the alarm but I am not that girl. So when it went off, I put my clothes on. Almost couldn’t find my underwear. Considered leaving them as a parting gift. Decided against it. You, half-awake, offered to drive me back. It was about a five minute drive but I could tell you didn’t really want to drive me back so I said no and you kissed me soft and said, ‘Thanks for coming over’ and I melted into you for a fraction of a second. Besides, we’ve never seen each other in the daylight, so why start now? You warned me the door slams heavy when it closes. A 20 minute walk home. It was the time of day when responsible people were out walking their dogs. I found five dollars on the sidewalk and I had to pee like hell. I remembered what my best friend told me about making sure to pee after sex or you’ll get a UTI. I walked a bit faster. The sun came up and I fell asleep smiling, a naïve girl who believed you could fuck someone into love. I apparently left my glasses in your room, so you came and dropped them off. You were illegally parked and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. We were five feet away from each other, waving goodbye like strangers who’d happened to reach for the same bag of baby carrots at Walmart. I turned around, hoping you’d watch my receding figure in your rearview mirror. I told you I wanted you to fuck me and I probably looked like I had no idea what I was doing because your voice was a chorus of ‘Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?’ Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to use a condom. Then, ‘You’re not a virgin, are you?’ No, it’s just been a while. I wonder what you would’ve done if I’d told the truth. Pushed in, too much, too soon. No, I don’t want to try again. I got you off and you kissed my forehead and we talked about whatever until you turned to your side and nodded off. You snore like my father. I like this. I wrap my arms around you and cannot fall asleep. You wake up at some point and kiss my arm. I think this is the sweetest thing. I try to count how many times I can kiss your shoulder blade before my alarm went off but I fell asleep and lost my count.

On Losing “It” by M. Nyamweya

[20280-blog]

It was beautiful outside today. 70 degrees and breezy. The kind of weather that makes people fall dumb in love, I think. It made me feel dreamy, at least. Like I was floating. I thought about what a pleasure it must be to fall in love just as it turns to spring. To feel the breeze paw at your wide open heart, your bee-stung heart. I walked to the library floating just like that, riding some three week old fantasy that I'd see you walking home and you would invite me over. Say, I still think about you. Say, I listened to that record you thought I would like. I would drop everything because I'm too soft not to. I'd float to your apartment, float on flushed skin and giggles, float next to you. I think you would anchor me. You would clasp my hand and anchor me because if you didn't I swear I'd float straight into the clouds. Things are never like this, though. So I went to the library like I always do and I finished my schoolwork like I always do and I read and thought about love and you and loving you and I fell asleep with the window wide open that night, hoping maybe you would be the exception.

On Spring and girls like me, M. Nyamweya

[20280-blog]

You told me my grasp is too tight My apologies if this feels too small for you My apologies if my mountains are hills to you You told me I'm too thorough but damn it, I've never done this before and if I had to become this undone again, I promise I would always choose you.

M. Nyamweya, I'm sorry

[20280-blog]

I found a book of prompts two days ago. I picked it up and opened up to a random page, which said something about describing the room I'm in to someone who is not with me. I imagine I am describing my bedroom to a distant love. We're on the phone and I'm probably shaking. From my bed, which is pretty low to the ground, I can see straight into the bathroom. There's a mirror above my sink and a slew of skincare products I consistently forget to use right next to it. There's a shower with tile. No bath -- I miss that about my old room. I feel as if I am boring you. I ask if I am, but you insist I could read directions off the back of a microwave dinner and you'd still be totally enamored. I continue. I'm a lot messier than I'd like to let on. There's clothes all over my bedroom floor. I don't see the point in hanging them. My record player is against the wall opposite of my bed. I only have a couple of records. I've got a Seahaven album going. It's blue and marbled and I wish you were here to flip it for me. I wish you were here to... I wish you were here. I've got a dresser with makeup strewn across it. You were never one to discuss your preference for girls sans makeup. I don't wear much anymore. On top of my dresser, there is a TV I never turn on. Not in an "I'm too busy for television" kind of way. More like "I cannot for the life of me keep up with a series, so I've given up." I've got a trash can full of failed poems, makeup wipes, and cups. So many cups. More clothes. It's gotten late. I tell you I have to go, but not before a brief 30 second pause. We both knew what it meant. The pause held more weight than the entire three hour conversation. It whispered, "It's 3 am and I'm sorry I love you so much it feels like weights are tied to my ankles and being with you is a marathon and God I'll be so sore tomorrow." I love you so much and I just spent 20 minutes describing my horribly dull room to you.

M. Nyamweya, Laments

[20280-blog]

I do not like who I became when I was with you. Was I even with you? The lines were so blurry but you seemed to know exactly where they were drawn. If you were a color, you'd probably be some miserable shade of cloudy blue, but I'd still dip my hands in your respective paint can and leave hand prints all over you. I'd still leave hand prints all over you.

M. Nyamweya, Some Grace

[20280-blog]

I once met a girl who was so soft, my fingertips left indentations whenever and wherever I touched her. That is how I knew life was worth living. Some people are so alarmingly warm you wonder how the sun hasn't swallowed them whole out of jealousy. I swallowed her whole and if I'd blinked, I would've missed her. I already miss her. I don't think I could ever replace this. I don't think I could ever try. The people you love the hardest are so subtle in disarming you, before you know it, her well-being is cubby-holed inside yours. A stream of lovers left in her wake spoke to just how nervous she was to do this alone. I promise you'll never be alone. I'll take your anxiety, love. I'll carry you. You don't have to feel tsunamis anymore. When this summer is over I'll look at her with glassy eyes and say, Well, damn it, if this isn't forever, I don't know what is.

M. Nyamweya, Rose

[20280-blog]

I am tired of writing about love. One day I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but here I am, all hands and teeth, bumping and I’m sorrys, and skin. And skin. Somehow I think we’ve mistaken convenience for purpose but when you touch me it feels so purposeful, I swear you’re a cartographer and I am uncharted territory. Maps mapping each other. Drawing lines to pinpoint locations I’d like to visit but not tonight. Not yet. You sigh and it sounds like how jasmine smells. Marks, lines, scratching, pressing. You try to hide a part of yourself you don’t like and I say, “Baby, don’t do that. I want to press my fingertips there until you heal worthy.” I say, “You know those popsicles in the clear plastic, colored rainbows that would cut your tongue in the summer? That’s you. You are every almost.” I am tired of writing about love.

M. Nyamweya, The almosts are worse

[20280-blog]

We could both just say it’s complicated. I don’t have what you need and this would never work. But right now I just need a pair of hands to rest on the space between my hips. I’ll unlearn love, and I’ll try not to spill poems onto your lips. We’ll make plans to forget fire. We’ll make plans to spill wax. We’ll make plans not to hold hands because I swear I swear I swear we’re just friends. I’ll etch lust in cursive between the freckles on your back. In lieu of conversation, we can use our mouths otherwise. This isn’t very wise, but we are young and I am so wound up.

M. Nyamweya, Benefits

[20280-blog]

I will love you when the street lights turn off. Even when you take a shower and track water everywhere, I will love you. I will love you when you are low tide and I am the shore. Even when you won't touch me, I will ache for more. I will love you even though you haven't read a novel since 9th grade and use mine as coasters. I'll love you when you use my good body wash as shampoo. If we wrestle, and this time you let me lose, I will love you. When you try to fix the TV, but you break it more, I will love you. I will still love you when you do the same to me. Every day that I am thunder and you strike me like lightning, I will follow the source of your electricity to the ground and quiet myself to watch you glow.

M. Nyamweya, In which we are too much for each other

[20280-blog]

Nothing scares me more than the thought of never falling deeply in love. Not death, not airplanes, not spiders, not disease. I don't want to fall in love like I have to. I want to love like splitting hairs and coffee stains and lipstick smudges and fireworks in parking lots and conversation crashing like waterfalls on sharp rocks and raw skin and fingertips and counting the lines on the pink of your lips and glasses shattering and too much too much too much. Not enough not enough not enough. That is how I will love.

M. Nyamweya, I realize this is an intimidating request

[20280-blog]

I lost you for a while When I found you, you'd moved on Of course; I hadn't expected you not to I hope she knows who she's kissing I hope she wraps every part of herself around you, like you deserve I hope when you're kissing her, your breath remembers me and forms a hand around her neck I hope there are words you say out loud that are still painted black You won't be able to figure out why It's me, love It's only me

M. Nyamweya, Would you recognize me in a line-up?

[20280-blog]

You apologized yesterday which was strange because when you kissed me, it felt like an apology When I kissed you, it tasted like we were both sorry I hope this is the last thing I ever write about you I hope you find someone who can be the skin to cover your bones

M. Nyamweya, Crushing on Skeletons