When He Asks If You Can Be “Friends”
When he asks if you can be friends,
The laughter stops.
You will be silenced.
He reaches out – arms you crave now hang like nooses you have never seen.
You hesitate,
remembering his fingers navigating,
Him kissing your thighs,
Smiling,
He’s a tornado you run straight into.
Softly rubbing your abdomen,
humming: “You have a belly button ring. I didn’t know that.”
Exploration was something you used to fear.
Not much for adventures,
You were the cautious child.
The one who wanted to wear two life-jackets,
Equip the car with an earthquake kit,
Ask about expiration dates,
Fear silhouettes lurked in every alleyway.
You were always the careful one,
Protecting your heart,
your hands,
your body,
You have seen what happens when you don’t.
You have watched wolves descend,
so you keep eyes open.
You do not settle.
But you lower the gates,
walk straight into the Underworld with him,
Loving his imperfections the entire way.
You throw out the rule book.
You stop looking for signs.
You aren’t afraid.
You just aren’t afraid.
But when he asks if you can be friends,
you will stop.
You will swallow ill-fated hopes that things can change,
But things don’t often change.
You say yes.
You say sure.
You hug him.
You try not to cry.
But for some reason you cannot logically explain,
you are still not afraid.
He is Goosebumps
He is Are You Afraid Of The Dark?
And everything you know will result in nostalgic nightmare
But for now,
you love him.
For now,
you say yes to another day.
For now,
you are not afraid to love someone who cannot love you back. 
