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Fatal LoversYou and I are the definition of fatal attraction,
like a serotonin deficiency to the pretty side of the blade,
like the heavy-hearted pebble that wants to trails its lips across still waters,
like sun-bleached and wind-whipped birch paper to the lustful licks of shadow-dancing candle flame.
I expect everything to fail - us, no exception -
because having to hold my hopes up is far too hard on my limbs,
when my wrists just want to bleed out,
my shoulder blades still ache from tearing out my wing span,
and my fingertips burn from when they learnt to trust, and then couldn't hold on when that trust fell out from under them.
You say you carry far too much baggage whenever you take a trip to my heart,
when you trip,
and fall into love.
But I'll be your suitcase,
your luggage cart,
the entire fucking cargo hold of as many airplanes as you will ever need.
Because having no baggage means you're only here temporarily,
and I want you for so much longer than that.
I want you to pack up your
on sitting across from a stranger at davis libraryi wonder if anyone has ever sat
across from you and wrote a poem about you
even though they don't know you.
i wonder if anyone has ever done
this for me. i hope when you go home
you don't wash your hair. i like that it's messy
and long. if i were a ladybug i would like to sleep
there. i would tunnel just beneath the top layer
and shudder my wings to a close and have dreams of fields
of wheat. i hope you can see how this is a good thing.
and i hope you don't change your clothes. i hope you wear
a sweater everywhere you go. i like that the one you're wearing now
is brown and without a pattern. its not ambitious or pretentious. if i
were a flea, i'd perch on your shoulder for company until i got hungry.
i wouldn't bite you and wouldn't know why in my tiny insect mind.
i hope you never wear contacts, and i hope sometime you fall
asleep with your glasses on. i hope you never talk on the telephone
except once a week to your grandmother. i hope you never peel your stickers
off your laptop, no
goodbye, lettermani love you enough
that my heart is
like a wound
in my chest.
i know it's not pretty
but i'll tell you
how you leave me
into the sink,
porcelain veneer sneering
at the broken teeth and mirror
a foot ahead.
you smell like
drink & weed,
and you are making me sick.
in the morning,
i will sit you down at the
kitchen table to show
you the vomit behind
eyes bleed rivers
dead sea salted
over the bends
of my thumb.
you read sad poetry
to the caves
inside my heart,
because sadness knows
and expect me
not to crumble.
finally gave up'well what were you expecting?'
'something with meaning'
i felt like a baby when i laid in your arms
when you pressed your palms against mine
my fingers barely reaching halfway up yours
you laughed when i called you gorgeous
and didn't smile when i told you i liked you
but your lips still slid across my stomach
i don't think you know that you made me cry
and i don't think you understand that you
meant more to me, than i did to you
and you say sorry now, with a full stop
as if it's the end of everything; the end of us
but do you even know what you're really
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