Here’s what I know:
A storm only comes when we’ve been
in a drought for a couple months.
By then, the ground is so used
to not having water,
that it can’t suck it up fast enough
and we have flash flood warnings.

I know that if you warm up frostbite
too quickly, you’ll end up burning the tissue.

I know that if you show an unaffectionate
person too much love, they won’t show it back.

I know that poetry allows
me to take deep breaths in crowded rooms.

I know that this poem tastes like dirt on my tongue
because I’m using my hands to dig up earth.

I know that I’m not sure what I’m looking for.
I’m not even sure if it’s there anymore.

I know that I don’t have dreams about kissing you.
I have dreams about leaving my fingerprints on your skin.

I know that I often find myself wondering if every mouth is unique
and I wonder what my voice tastes like to you.

I know that I have not had the opportunity to talk much lately.
I know that my vocal chords are rusting like the strings
on my guitar that are dying to be played.

I know that I want to know if I taste metallic.
I want to know if I taste like blood.

I know that I am learning how to be careful,
how to be patient,
how to ease into things,
how to exist without overwhelming.

2:49 p.m. (I also know that high school boys will only call me pretty if I grow out my hair)