The Man on the Greyhound Held Me.
My yellow raincoat cried droplets in Crossville.
That is when he pressed into me.
He told me he was an empath,
he wanted to comfort me.
He consoled me with the grip of his rough hands on my wrist.
He calmed me with the smell of airplane whiskey bottles on his breath.
Dark liquor married the Doritos I watched him buy
at the gas station in Jackson.
Yes, the one whose sign read DO GE .
Yes, The one where they chain smoked Newports on the curb,
washed it down with sour candy.
Yes, the one where I told myself I liked the romance of a port-a-potty.
He liked to tell me about myself.
I didn’t like that he thought he knew me,
among other things.
But I did not have extra words,
so I let him create me.
He told me I was smart.
He told me I was beautiful.
He told me I was innocent.
He said I wanted someone to hold me,
that I wanted someone to take care of me.
“Yes but not you,” I wanted to say but didn’t.
I did not have extra words.
And so the man on the greyhound held me.
And I prayed all night with my eyes wide open.