My home perm and pubescent oil-slick skin,
razor-burned legs and sour August sweat
that teen deodorant doesn’t mask—
none of this deters you from approaching
me in the crowd. You feign a stumble
graceful as a swan dive, convincing me
I tripped over your shoes
and you, a man in an immaculate
button-down shirt, grasp my arms
to steady me, smiling at my stammer
and begging my pardon.
Can you discern how grateful I am
to be handled gently? Maybe you smell
the still-raw wound my middle school crush
inflicted by telling me you’re nice
but you’re ugly as hell.
When your hand slides down my back,
when you draw me into an embrace
and cup my ass
I freeze, sucking in a lungful of cologne
until you release me and stride away
so fast you don’t hear me say
to the empty space you filled
just a second before:
I’m sorry.