the truth is
i stared at your desk while it happened
eyes locked on the textbooks
balanced precariously
on a desk in a textbook dorm room
in the middle of a textbook definition
of a situation that would ensure a girl couldn't feel anymore

the truth is
if i kept my eyes focused on the orange binding
that read "alculus" from my viewpoint
then i wouldn't feel the ratty blue sheets
that i'd somehow woken up in
scratching my skin
or taste the jack daniels on your breath
mixing with the salt from my damp face
or hear the sound of solo cups
intermittently falling to the ground
on the other side of the door

the truth is
if i just imagined
the mountains of knowledge
that lay inside
colonial latin america: a documentary history
i wouldn't feel the cross around your neck
hitting my chest
or be able to make out
my torn dress balled up on the floor
or feel your sock covered feet
rubbing against my cold, bare ones

the truth is
if i counted the rings
on your spiraled notebook
then i could say i truthfully
didn't feel anything at all