Poetry By Danielle Bacibianco

Buffy May CC




Savor 

See, these days I measure time differently – 
I sit with the quiet, 
fingering ghosts, 
letting memory smolder 
instead of igniting. 

Still – 
there’s a part of me 
that knows exactly how to live.
I exist now 
B E T W E E N 
what I was 
and what I’m becoming– 
a body 
learning how to hold light 
without setting itself on fire. 

But FUCK– 
how I remember the salt, 
the sweat, 
the taste of sweet beer 
when I licked my thumb, 
the feeling of cold glass 
as I held the bottle’s neck 
in the purlicue 
My thumb ring would tap beats, 
biting my lip slowly, 
looking at another conquest. 

And it wasn’t a particular “her” 
it ways any her 
wherever I found her: 
Cubbyhole, 
Henrietta’s, 
Cattyshack 
the backseat of my Volkswagen Jetta. 
–once I wrote my name and number on a bar napkin. 
To think, the waitress actually called me . . . 

You see chaos felt like purpose, 
the way self-destruction 
of being promiscuous 
how it wrapped itself around me 
the same way cocaine dusted itself 
into the crevices of my house key 
like something holy, 
in the dark bathroom stalls – 
Inhaling something 
that was only mine.

They say it’s good to be seen– 
but I was visible back then, wasn’t I? 
Lit up in all the wrong ways, 
glowing like a warning sign 
An itch I could not ignore. 

Now I am softer . . . 
or maybe just quieter. 
I don’t know. 
Every storm wants a skyline, 
The kind of brightness that’s hard to ignore. 
An ache that pangs and 
doesn’t ask for permission. 
How to lean in close 
and feel the heat of a mouth – 
while still wanting to fade a bit, 
to be a little ruined on purpose. 
Because healing – 
healing doesn’t care about that anymore. 

Every now and then 
I am reminded to sit still 
while everything in me 
wants to run back 
like finger nails scraping across the skin, 
yearning to return 
to the woman who knew how to burn. 

I remember the way the cigarettes 
fit between my fingers – 
paper curling back inch by inch, 
amber tightening, 
then loosening, 
like something being unbuttoned, 
slowly, 
like a shirt 
sliding off a shoulder . . . down. 

I trace her sometimes, 
in reflections, 
in memories of seeing her
on top of me 
her curves and spine 
looking at myself in the ceiling mirror. 
It was the way my hands would move 
with anticipation of being so close — 
I can taste the alcohol 
in the back of my throat. 

You see there was another hunger, too– 
not just for the high, 
but for eyes, 
for hands, 
for someone, anyone 
to say “Stay” 
in the darkness. 
I remember feeling how lonely 
a stripper was when she was 
giving me a lap dance. 

I wore lust like perfume, 
thick, undeniable, 
letting it cling to strangers 
in spaces of taboo, 
hoping for, 
looking for love that would cling to me. 

I misunderstood being wanted 
for being known. 
I confused bodies for belonging. 
How real is connection when you really don’t want to be connected? 

I chased it – 
that feeling 
that fleeting spark 
of being in someone else’s gaze, 
just for a moment of almost-meaning, 
of almost-mattering. 

And there’s a grief in that, 
a longing for something 
that only you could understand so well.

Coming out was a rebirth. 
The gay bars became home. 
But alcohol wanted me dead. 

Imagine what it’s like waking up 
and choosing breath 
over insanity 
over again 
and again, 
and again. 

There are days I still want to disappear 
into it – 
into the rush, 
the blur, 
I miss the crave 
the pulse throbbing beneath my skin – 
the sharp-edged comfort 
of self-destruction 
dressed up neatly as control. 

There are days I still miss 
the damaged girl in the alley light, 
black mascara bleeding truth down her cheeks, 
holding something poisonous 
like it was love. 
And sometimes I convince myself that I still need that pain. 

Despair knew me in the dark 
back then – late night summer sounds, 
breathless, hot 
sirens passing by, 
the corner of Hudson street, 
our bodies pressed against 
brick walls and 
each others’,  
passion burning 
while the street light clicked: 
red, green, yellow. 
As much as I remember the women,
I remember me more. 
– I was never afraid of endings then. 
But today, 
sober, 
I am . . . 

Because living – 
REALLY LIVING – 
means staying 
when the pressure builds 
Like the slow touch of 
my hand finding its way up her thigh, 
Confident, but unsure 
As I hold my breath and kiss her neck 
my lips rest 
Denim belt hoops tugging in the summer time. 

I don’t feed desire with poison anymore. 
I feed it with breath, 
with thoughts 
with coffee 
and conversations, 
with the unbearable act 
of continuing despite idleness. 

Even all these years later, 
I can’t wholly trust it – 
I was taught that wanting too much 
a disease of excess 
was the first step back into ruin, 
that malady itself 
is something I must always 
be careful with. 

And yet – 
There are still some nights 
I ache for the inferno. 
For the certainty 
of collapse.
For the simplicity 
of ruin. 

For the way she’d pull me close – 
her hand firm at my throat, 
not to hurt, 
just to hold me there, 
to remind me how close 
I could get again 
to lose control. 

Surrender has a different meaning these days. 
Morning always comes 
And I rise – 
not saved, 
not whole, 
but choosing to change 
in spite of myself. 

I think of the darkness 
the kind that used to find me in cramped, tiled rooms – 
music thudding through the walls, 
crawling out of cars crashed into storefronts and lightpoles and mailboxes . . .
​shapes in the silhouette of madness 
strangers sharing moments 
sometimes innocent 
sometimes dangerous – 
Things can never stay the same. 

And now I wonder how to touch 
with same urgency, 
how to find drive an reason 
whether skin to skin 
or pen to paper 
how to move my fingers across – 
How do I rise above without needing to completely lose myself 
just to feel it?

I carry those stories with me – 
not for the wounds, 
but asa warning, 
to remind myself 
of the time in my life 
where I thought coming out 
would keep me alive, 
but I barely survived. 

Rock bottom– 
And still . . . the darkness 
after all these years later 
If I close my eyes 
I can taste it 
And I – 
after all these lessons 
If I hold my breath 
I can get the sensation 
So, while I am still becoming 
there’s stilla part of me that wants to die. 

I remember 
why I got sober 
I think about how choosing 
to live safely 
To love kindly 
even while my hands squeeze 
tightly— her hips. 
I pull her in closer like 
I’m learning to be seen again. 
As we lay in bed, 
I’m grateful for 
the quiet insistence of staying, 
of surviving all the bad just to get here, 
entangled arms and legs. 

I can never forget 
how it used to be. 
Learning how to share my body 
in this new season of yearning
without the noise, 
with the surety of always coming home, 
of having shelter and familiarity. 

Today, I choose to love intently, 
without really knowing myself still or 
how not to need 
to be needed. 
But I am leaning into the dyke 
I always wanted to be. 
Holding doors and buying flowers, 
how I take her hand and gently guide her. 
Boots scuffed from sidewalks, 
tattoos and images scattered – 
I hug her from behind 
without the need of a blur or bottle. 

I love when her hands wrap around my head, 
And her fingers run 
through my hair that’s clipped close. 
I kiss every soft edge 
not rushed, 
I think, how do I keep moving forward? 
I am rough at the seams, 
but with her I try to be tender. 
I am still afraid 
of my sharp edges 
and impulsive ways, 
of still wanting to be bad, 
to go to the places 
I said I never would. 
​
But, what is passion anyway? 
Is it not all the versions of ourselves converging 
for the sake of connection? 
These acts of sex and respite, 
can they not just fix 
the parts of us 
that we want to keep hidden?
After all, 
is love 
not lust that is awake 
choosing to savor 
for just one more . . . 



Danielle Bacibianco, PhD, (sher/her) is a queer writer, playwright, and researcher whose work explores the intersections of addiction, recovery, identity, and emotional survival. Her writing is marked by visceral honesty and lyrical intensity, often tracing the gray space between destruction and transformation. Drawing from lived experience, Danielle examines themes of longing, self-reclamation, and the complexities of healing from alcohol and drug addiction. 

Danielle's original 60-minute play, The Plans We Made, was invited to take the stage at the Midtown International Theatre Festival (New York City, June 2026). Her play first took the stage as a 10-minute original at the Women’s Playwright Collective New Voices Festival (Staten Island, New York - 2025). Aside, her scholarly work has appeared in the following academic journals: College English, Reflections: A Journal of Community-Engaged Writing and Rhetoric, and Writers: Craft and Context. Through “Savor” Bacibianco invites readers into intimate, unfiltered landscapes where pain, desire, and hope coexist. www.drdaniellebacibianco.com

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