to the girl who tried to love the body that wasn't mine:
you're my type but it's not the time.
i'll lose sleep over you
and many other things.

i'm black ink on eggshell paper
smeared eyeliner and saltwater spit
sea-sickness on the sidewalk
anxious and horny, nostalgic and impotent and
eternally repentant.

you're the soft curve of a smile
carved from the guards' gunmetal cage
and i have no pity for the inmates who settled.
will you touch the parts that can't ask for it?