Private Party

I’ve had several first kisses.
    None of them counted
      until I wanted them to.

            This was supposed to be the one,
         the wash away all doubt, bathe me
               in his blood and deliver me
            to paradise one.

               I remember his fingers
      between the blinds, searching
    for an audience, grateful for none.

I sat on the edge
of his bed, a vibration.

            His hands were dry.

After, I remember crying
   as he laid prayers over me
         like a blanket,
but there was nothing to be done.

               I still can’t
               untangle
               my yesses
               from my nos.

   They get caught
      between my teeth
like drunken dancers, stumbling
   through the music,
unable to set their feet to the rhythm.

   Mostly, I keep my mouth closed—make it a private party.
          That way no one has to worry
       what song is playing.
             Everyone gets to be a dancer.