i don't want to be your girl
your grandmother's porcelain
for i breathe the same air
you breathe

drink from the same sink
shaking hands
with your obscenities
your fingers feel like late june.

and it didn't
matter
that we'd never find our places
forever laced inbetween each other's thoughts.

i listen
while she dreams
tell her please
"make me feel something."

carry your mind on the small
of my back
and too often
we do not show
what knots behind our ribs
but
when my fingers trace you
they feel more than skin
more than bone

you,
you touching my knees
under ripping jeans
you can push on my
neck
eyelids
and thighs
let your honey drip down my lap
but, please
make me feel something
underneath freckled skin
and idled away in your late june bones
please
why don’t i feel something?