I write poems to him naked. I write and I am trying to write myself back together. I write like my limbs are lines and so is my tongue. I am better on paper than in person.

He got all my references. Except my hyper feminine references. He understood me unless I was acting like a crazy girl. I do a very good crazy girl act. You would almost believe me yourself.

Once upon a time, I watched the back of his head for days but there is so much I never saw. I thought he belonged at the popular kids’ table. I thought he would be happiest dating the prettiest girl in school. I thought he needed me to let him go. I let him go.

Let him? I made him go.

Girls are always forcing boys to spend time with the other boys. We don’t see that the other boys have fangs. We don’t see that our boys have only their not very sharp teeth to defend themselves.

My boy. I hate him for loving someone else but I gave him no choice except to love someone else. My boy. I sent him off to war, didn’t I? I sent him lonely off to do his best to be a hunter.

My boy is a healer. My boy is a scholar. My boy does not have the heart to shoot a gun. My boy was born with an empath’s soul and music in his ears. My boy thinks he is too much a girl for me but my boy is the kind of man no one told how beautiful he is. How sacred.

I have a statue of Herne the Hunter. Herne has a six pack and long flowing locks of hair. When I touch Herne, I feel him pulse. When I touch him, I imagine I am holding the boy’s hand, the boy’s thigh…