blonde rays of sun over

popcorn teeth, baseball lover

who sits on the outfield and waits for the game

to come to them. slow, easy, drunk, and nonplussed.

the Man who smells like tobacco and Indiana

tells you that the earth never started warming up

until you were born.

He could lick my neck and
I would feel like a Rothko,
a colored, controlled canvas

waiting to be understood.

The only thing I hate more than a boy
who doesn't know what's good for him (which is me)
is a boy who doesn't realize what's better for him
(which is not me)

i couldn't go as far today,
because i started up hill.
and i thought, as i turned the corner
heaving
cherry-faced
sweating:
*****
isn't that just life lately

Black bed sheets, Big blush brush, back and forth.
Pouting, popping, posing. "Can't believe he's single!"
Oh my god. I know right.
I say with the expression of a taxidermied doe. Texting
until I want to pull my fingers off, First Class Ticket in a
bottle of Sky. I'm a ****** who can't drive and it's ironic
because I feel like I'm in high school again and I want to die.
Please ask me one more time if I think you look good,
as I reach to lift up the window, It's April and I'm cold,
I stare at the asphalt ground down from 6 floors up.
Contemplating how I managed to make it when I fell from heaven all those years ago.

Est-ce que tu aimes les mots?
The words which
drip-drop, pitter patter,
tonguing like teens in
a Durham movie theater. Sticky summer
sweetness,
Doucement* My Desire, my tender
needing, who nods along,
rocks away,
hands gripping thighs and clinging thoughts.

He offered, "isn't that just as valid?" with
tired circles under his eyes
and his dark vinyl-shiny curly hair
and the silly smirks, and those coffee hands.
What a disappointment, I think to myself,
that I could have ever wanted to fit that body
into mine. Jig-jag-saw-like, scraping,
punitive, masochistic, I understand rejection like
lyrics, like the depth of black, like a password.