we’re hatred
in this warm, unhappy way
that seeps down our thighs like a child
******* his pants but we can’t see what they say:
when they say “look up at the moon” our eyes dance among stars.

we pretend
that the moon stands for
the somethings that are wrong in our lives,
like how bald babies don’t look our ways because we will
never ever ever be pretty, white daisies arching under the sun.

our cheeks
rustle among grass in this
calm way that says take my hand, and
spare yourself the indecency of imagining a love life
where they peel you apart like a ripe banana, discover diamonds

in your rind.