You Make Me Love Every Part Of Myself (Even The Gross Stuff)

I can remember the first time I pooped
at that old boyfriend’s house.
We had been dating for five months.
It was after eating beef tacos,
we were watching Arrested
Development. I wanted to finish
the episode, so I didn’t want to leave,
but I had to poop – right fucking then.

It was liberating and yet, I was mortified.
I refused to make eye contact
for the next hour, I used
diversion tactics – a blowjob –
to keep him from leaving
the basement.

We never talked about the fact I
was upstairs for thirty minutes,
or the date we had at the Italian
place where the gnocchi gave me
instantaneous diarrhea, or the
camping trip where I cried in the
middle of the night because I knew
there wasn’t going to be good
toilet paper for three more days.

But with you, I sort of knew that all
this – this stomach churned raw
emotions coming all at once nonsense –
a clap and sputter and a shake –
was going to amount to more than
a conversation about “stomach sensitivity.”

I think why is does this need
to be a big deal at all, I poop twice
a day, three if I’m being
productive, four or six if I drank
whiskey the night before, and
so that’s how I decide to love you.

I will make this love for you a daily act, a routine,
(don’t worry, there’s baby wipes
to keep shit fresh) –
here I had spent so much time
hiding a necessary act from everyone –
I remember leaving a dude’s
house at 2am post not-great-sex because I had to
shit so bad, or you know, I decide to stay,
running water and a fan.
Both sure fire signs anyway but
maybe he won’t hear the splash,
splatter, plop –

And so with you, this is all new,
all trust, no glamour. I will cling to you
like my ass does to porcelain.
After chicken curry,
after beef tacos,
after jalapeño cream cheese poppers.

When I was kid, I never needed
to close the door, never wasted time
on shame and stench, so I am
returning this childlike state,
loving you and shitting unabashedly,
without apologies – only gentle warnings
“Babe don’t go in there for a bit”
or in other words,
“I’m scared to love like this.”

It’s messy, this love, a relieved sigh
in the bathroom stall, a kiss on the forehead
after a pinky in the butt. So I promise now,
and forever, to be honest, to be open
to always tell you exactly when
I have to poop.