sequence (n).

In my mind I lined up all of my past loves
and the procession wrote a story on its own.

There was the dizzy of first love
and the caution of the last,
each countered and
contrasted the
man who came before them.  

There was the man who loved me deeply
and a man who couldn’t help himself
a man whose heart was locked away
and a man who shattered me with insults.
There was a man who woke early
and a man who wrote me letters
and all along
a man
who didn’t know
all of the ways
I loved him.

I think about the woman I have been
and the woman in each of their lenses.
I think about the woman I revealed to them,
in parts, shielding
what I thought they would think
is undesirable
(mostly, this heaviness).  
I think about the woman I contorted into,
the woman who
is fun to have at parties and
has many talents and
will think of gifts to bring your mother.

I think about the men who have loved
or not loved
or tried to love me.
I think
I am someone who knows how to love
but doesn’t know how
to let someone love me.