Bring It The Fuck On — A Poem

I would do anything to know you.
Repeat every mistake,
relive every loss of a person.
Move to a city that doesn’t want me,
become some flatter, more angular version of myself,
pretend not to decompose in stale office air.

Sticky bars filled with people
I want so badly to understand—
but never will.
Strange, stalky men licking sweat from their upper lips,
women with heady perfume, bare shoulders rubbing
under neon lights—
all in on some secret
I’m not a part of.
Maybe it’s better that way.

I would welcome the physical pain:
swollen, stinging bumps vandalizing my skin,
the visible punishment for naivety.
“Every woman’s worst nightmare,” one nurse declares.
“You’re strong,” another informs me,
though she doesn’t know me.
No one here does.

Puckered scars in secret places,
a handmade answer to
 why I am in so much pain.

Childbirth.
Your warm, dark-haired skull parts
what I didn’t know was closed.

And I would do it all again—
with vigor—
for just the chance to know you.

Smiling to myself,
chanting to anyone who will listen,
Bring it the fuck on.