I'd like to work up the courage to ask you
if it is a cultural thing
to dress like a plushy carrot
that I'd like to passionately julienne
and sprinkle on my bed sheets.

Sometimes I forget that I'm the owner of my body
and I'm not just housesitting until the person whose home it really is gets back from vacation.

Thankfully whoever lives here always leaves me a roster that includes a list of the people in her life
so I don't embarrass her with my social ignorance.

Yesterday, she left me with the person she had labeled as "boyfriend" in her reference contact list.
And even though I didn't recognize him as mine,
when I stole glances for intel purposes,
I felt this surge of emotion
like she had left the electricity running in the room she dedicated to him.

I'm hesitant to tell you that I love you,
because the last time I left my heart on someone's doorstep,
she left it out in the rain.

So pardon me for finally nursing it from its two year bout of pneumonia.

Because even though there are shots that prevent cooties,
I'm sorry to say that modern medicine has yet to find the cure for heartbreak.

If fathers teach their sons the art of shaving,
shouldn't mothers teach their daughters the intricacy of doing and undoing bras?

Unfortunately, this world isn't a utopia for gender role demos,
so I'd appreciate it if you didn't laugh at me
while I fumble to get you *******.