The first time I wrote you a poem,
My hands shook and shook
Wishing that my pen was your body
It felt too much like mine,
Too soft, too smooth
And the ink smeared over the paper,
As though it were eyeliner on a pale face
And that poem hit too close to home,
Even without the words.
So I burnt the paper with my cigarette
As though it really were my skin.

The second time I wrote you a poem,
The wording was clumsy and imperfect.
Like me.
You wouldn't love it.
Like me.
So I tore the paper to shreds,
As though it really were my skin.

The third time I wrote you a poem,
It was about how every time we got high,
Every word out of your mouth sounded like 
"I'm leaving."
And I thought it would become obsolete.
So I forgot where I put it,
As though I were you,
As though it were really my skin.

The fourth time I wrote you a poem,
I wrote how your hands felt against my body
How your edges met the curves I hate,
How our crime was committed in her bed.
I decided I didn't like it,
So I tried to forget it,
As though it were really my skin.

This is poem number five.
This is what I would call a rough draft
Or kindling.
Or anything but a poem.
It's written in pencil this time,
Because I like the way a pencil
Feels in my hand.
All angles and edges
And it doesn't remind me of my own skin.

And these words are clumsy
And trite
And imperfect
And bold.
They're not good enough for you,
And maybe I'm not good enough for you either,
Because you deserve perfect.
But before you figure that out,
Please take these words
And run the fingers of your heart over them.
As though they were really my skin.