what do you write
when you are sixteen and appeal only to girls
who think they know the pain of heartbreak
between their morning classes?

who believe they have walked a thousand earths
in their paper-white sneakers,
and their flowing hair?

lips covered in flowers;
skin painted in gold;
they are happy, and a little bit empty

which is why they love poetry like mine,
which dresses itself in obscurity
and ****** metaphors
like this forgery could pass for anything real.