you were not the saint your yellowed hands
and stained, creased eyes would make you out to be.
you told me you had kissed some other girl and that she
was nothing like me and that’s what you liked about her.

you called her chaos and said that every time i locked my
thumbs together the bones began to decay. you said that you
hated when my hair covered my eyes because i never wore it back.
you said my voice never rose above a whisper and you were right
even though you never asked me why.

you were lying when you pretended that you were something
better than me. your ankles had grown together from the years
of letting them hang languidly and some ugly weeds (wildflowers)
had held them there. every word you spoke was folded carefully like
an origami bird that you spit out from the back of your throat, polished
in a sugardrop gloss sticking to the seams. you knew the presentation was
just as important as the message and maybe i knew it too once.

i started off planning to write about me but it never works out.