Counting

I’ve never kissed a girl

in a way that counted:

truth-or-dare pretext

of preteen sleepovers,

summer camp makeout contests,

Captain Morgan and Coke

at college parties. I’ve lost count

of friends I’ve goaded

into leaving lipstick on me

like ink stains, like I’d pressed

my journal to my cheeks

and gone out dressed in secret feelings.

These days I keep old journals

by my bed and count the poems

penned to ex-boyfriends,

the terms coined in 2 a.m. epiphanies

about my sexuality:

bisexual heteroflexibleromantic;

floating in the realm of bisexuality

leaning towards men;

not not bisexual.

I find the entry describing

how I asked a friend to fuck me

on her living room floor

when we were sixteen

and pretending to be other people.

A journal three years later reads:

Lost my virginity tonight

to Andrew Jensen.

I didn’t touch my friend

the way she touched me,

my clothes woven

into our nest of blankets,

her devout grandfather

asleep in the next room.

I should’ve known that one day

I’d have counted myself

lucky for the practice.