I sat across from you every
Monday Wednesday Friday
and I fantasized about us fighting every second of it

because the cheekbones in your face beg me to
indent them
like you are made of paper and glass

I am a matchstick house
glued together with bad intentions
lighted by your glance

and the bones in your knuckles caught me off guard every time
and how the skin stretched tightly like canvas on a frame

and all I wanted was your hand around my throat
and the other one making blood spurt from my nose

so maybe its best we never really spoke