His voice is quiet in the dark
of the heavy tropic air in the motel room
and pained, but I offer nothing
because I can�t explain these tears
that leave me mute with helplessness
and rigid with self-control.
I turn my head to the lazy ceiling fan
and offer nothing, nothing;
already I have learned
how wasted are these words that spill from my lips.
He does not speak now,
just holds me;
I think we are both watching the same fragile palm tree
outside the dirty window.
The big bed creaks on the bare wooden floor,
and with each shuddery breath I grope for words.
�I�m too young,� I tell him � too young �
too young to be jaded and bitter;
too young to feel the pricking of annoyance at human touch;
too innocent to turn my mouth from another�s
in revulsion and contempt;
too much of a child still
to cause pain and know how to react �
how to stand up under these layers
of eyes and lips and skin.
He calms me,
with gentle fingers on my mouth
and the old salty breeze washing in;
the quiet creeps through the window
as the silence stretches between us.
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