Repeating History

Once again tears stream down my face
as I regurgitate half truths
swallowed whole.

In my autobiography
I walk down the same street
knowing where the potholes are
but still falling
head first
still crawling out
hurt and bitter
as if I have forgotten
I can walk down a different street.

But I like him.
His energy
warms between my thighs,
his cool breeze
makes my arms goose bump
uncontrollably.

So I walk down the same street
knowing where the potholes are
but still falling.