The only reason I stare back at you
is to keep myself from looking into the lackluster eyes above your ****** metal bed frame belonging to the only person I could possibly hate more than you.

Which *****.

Because I hate you in a
youtoldmeLenniedies, youatemylastoreo, youdidn’tgetmypoetry, youforgotmy19thbirthday, kind of way.

But it’s her.
It’s her
in the weathered frame
that keeps putting coins in the slot
just to get drunkenly slotted for five minutes at 4 a.m.,

It’s her
that sits with an empty vase
and assures, “It’s fine, I don’t mind,”
while in fact salt water pioneers trek across her pillow,

It’s her
that ironed that patchwork of
dimples and freckles into the mocking mirror
for safe keeping.

Poor thing.
She only
holds thistles to her heart
because scorpions surround her.
What’s a girl to do?
Be bought, be bruised, be broken-hearted, be buried?
She couldn’t help but
frame herself.