But I’m genuinely curious.

If I’m just a poet.

Or if I’m just sad.

****.

Do you see my sadness, too?

I only know what it means to miss someone; never have I known what it means to be missed.

When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.

She haunts me.

“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]

If I’m the villain, then you’re
the origin story.

What do ya say, Kid?

Do you have another poem in you?

Maybe he didn’t burn you
in the literal sense;
but gaslighting is its own
misogynistic brand of conflagration.