the syntax of rosebuds
leaves my lips full of thorns;
my pallor has drained into
a puddle at your feet.

i live in a bathtub
that's too small and tight
for my little body —
this is not a party,
but a broken mirror and a handful of sour patch kids,
and i haven't tasted you since fifty-four days were zero.

can we have just a night
where that's all i do?
and my tongue can become ship
and your thighs become pacific;
give to me what i never wanted
to want
to take from you.