the name collector

There was Curtis, perfect if only he
had never opened his mouth, who
talked at length about his own facial hair
and who never sent me a text
message I didn’t ignore,

and Andi the German,

who tasted not a thing like
Deutschland but instead like rum
and who afterwards blearily watched

me roll back up my tights. I walked home
alone.

Alex loved me and I hated him for it.

Yafet flicked a roach into the gutter,
told me he liked my name.  He

liked white girls tired of white boys
and I liked the way his hair matted into
a halo. The bathroom floor was what

we had in common.

Marce wanted to have sex with me
something awful. I said, “Beg for it,”
and he begged, “Please. Please have sex
with me.” I laughed and said “No.”

There was Seth, Ethan, Nico, Orlando,
and other men, too, men whose names

 I’ve already tossed into the trash. No

appreciation value.

You weren’t supposed to be in this poem.
I told myself I was going to write a poem
where you didn’t belong.

But before all of these names was you—

the bigness of your name too much for one
sentence—

and I wonder which of these years I’ll

finally stop writing you love poems.