When I fell back into the cramped nook of your shelf,
you didn't even acknowledge me amidst the other knickers and gnats vying for your attention.
You overlooked the viscous hatred glazing my bronze porcelain.

And after you spit-shined me in an attempt to erase the set-in stain
that so starkly contrasted all of the work that you had put into the cocoa complexion nurtured in the heated vacuum of your built-in incubator,
you showed me off to your friends,

your little nesting doll that had shrunk down to its true form,
so cute and abridged that you could fit its summation in your pocket,
doomed to eternally room with your dusty love shields and dingy photocopies of past mistakes.

You're the silent promise held
in fingertips lazily murmuring to my naked skin
while they cross theselves behind my back.

You told me that I was only eighteen
and I had the rest of my life to love other people,

And you told me that you weren't good enough for me anyway,

And that it isn't even worth trying long distance because some girl you met online broke your heart in middle school,

And you told me that you'd still love me,
only in a different way,

And you compared me to your ex-something-or-other and a cloying cookie,

And I kissed your neck as you were leaving
and you rubbed the lipstick back on my dress.

You caught me by the shoelace
and tethered me to your side
but I was born to float away
and be destroyed by the sun.