by Romina Ramos
My girlfriend is not a poet
but without me she says
she feels like an uncut footlong sub
okay but a little awkward and messy.
The kind that falls apart in your hands.
She says why don’t you write
about me? It’s not that easy.
I tell her poetry is my therapist
sits across the room, one finger
on its metaphorical specs and says
show me where you bleed.
I am not a love poet.
I struggle to find the right simile
for feeling secure, the right metaphor
for being this loved. Every kiss turns
into a cliche. Instead, I say thank you
for holding my hand in public,