you are a world unto yourself, city limits lined in hair gel and linen
you had a tiny bruise on your neck and i locked myself in a room with the blinds drawn.

the warmth
i almost fall into concrete. i’ve just been kissed by two young men and i think to myself, the first bud of this secret, that to have the same by you would be quite the privilege
and i keep it to myself
as you keep me from kissing concrete, maybe by grabbing my wrist,
i don’t remember-
and i think the touch of your hand sounds like it could change me.

the end
we fall out over the lipstick on my straw.

the bleached
jealousy makes my skin glow, curls my hair into dampness and my clothes stick to my body like the baby hairs on a concubine’s forehead.
my sheets are wrinkled from never leaving them, and i cannot even begin to think why yours are
but since i have thought about it
i hope you like the way my tights turn to grey on my thighs,
that at least my lacquered eyes and painted smiles makes you think i’ve given up the ways of the days of last may
my hair is the color of my mother’s, of a cornfield in august, of honey strings immobile
i’ve learned to give you up, your bind to me will evaporate into thin air as my hair will darken at the roots and as my nails will go pink at the moons.
but i will sweeten the roots with honeycomb, will paint the moons with velvety plastic,
and you’ll unbutton your linen, 
and sleep in your wrinkled sheets.

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