On bringing a new lover home for the first time

The awkward of turning my back on you at the door, I have spent the whole night working so hard to read your body and your face and your mind.
It’s dark and I know every inch so I have never bothered putting lamps by doors, there is never anyone in this place who does not belong here,
so you wait, silhouetted, for me to cross the room and flip the switch and then your eyes go up and out and I am scared of what you will notice.
I see dirty floors, dishes in the sink, a full recycling bin, all the things I cannot bring myself to care about. I have been too focused perhaps.
You see my piano, you sit down and make it sing.
You ask me where a piece of art came from, you inspect my bookshelf, and we head to the back porch to restlessly rest.
Half my plants are yellowed in over zealous care, half the cats in the neighborhood take naps on this porch. You see this, and light up.
Where can I be but here? I am content only in the place where all my secrets are housed.

In hours you will ask me, where is this one from? And I will tell you the story of a fourth grade playground fall, a bottle of peroxide the only medical care I received.
Your hands on my skin are slow and I am learning to trust them.
And after, when my heartbeat has stopped pounding louder than your voice, and my hands have unclenched from around your forearms,
when my spine and knees have loosened from their gesture of protection and fear, you will ask,
where did that scar come from?
And in my silence, still not see me for the wraith that I am, the half-gone soul I inhabit.