I.
you never saw me in winter:
shearling fur and kettlebell boots
my outer crust cracking from one step outdoors.
I wear socks to bed
and smoke Belmonts to cover
my breath with toxins
instead of you.
II.
I never wear pants when I’m with you
mostly because I’m hoping to re-enact me walking
over the Millennium Bridge
in May.
if the wind pushed any further
up my skirts, it would force my lungs right out my throat.
my hotel room called for us
but you were on a plane to Norway
and I was in my head.
III.
the last time we had sex
you told me you’d finish me off first next time
but I’m always like your backup song for karaoke,
in case someone takes your first choice.
you never:
acknowledged that my rice was shaped like a heart
and yours like a star at dinner,
ask me what my tattoos mean,
but always ask me if I’m pregnant.
you’re a roll of film that needs be developed but
I keep smearing the edges with my fingers
and scanning the red light over myself.