I am nearing a conclusion that I am not meant to love again, not meant to be loved again, that my first time was the only time and the glove doesn't fit because you can't use a glove to hold orange juice.

Drinking in the sour nectar and staring at my phone — when your name pops up, my lip is bitten; when you pop up your lip is bitten, blood beating boiling bounding boundless binge-watching Netflix shows until my brain can forget about how I thought you were going to pull me back, save me from my indecisions and independence and sentences running at a thousand beats a word, enough to make grammar Nazis salute and Captain America freeze himself over.

And you did. At least for a heartbeat. I should've known though. I should've known. This is the first poem I have written about a girl with brown hair.

I can't help but watch you dance. When you move my heart feels as though it is jump roping with Corbin Bleau and my eyes follow you, Aegis stealing my gaze from my past and looking to our future. I want you to want me.

The first time we slept together I had to convince you to come back. Maybe it was a sign; a stop light that I ignored again and dodged the ticket for. You were the yield sign that let me slow down.

The second time, I came to you; singing love songs takes on new meaning when they are through breaths on a couch and a tongue in my throat is the microphone and I don't ever want to stop singing again. Good thing you were a singer, too.

I told you that poets and dancers are the most attractive of people, one tic down without the toe, sucking away on your neck and a faux fetish created by my lack of shoes. But you took yours off, too.

You promised you wouldn't leave; lies should be limited to white ones and you were born Latina, your kisses as passionate as the music you play me and my smile wide when you make fun of my accent.

But now I am left here, confused at the thought of love prescribed in a medicine cabinet and stuck pondering the implications of an overdose.