it's cold inside & out, this essay is unwritten and i breathe in and i'm afraid my right wrist resting against the keyboard swollen where i clamped it between bus door & overpacked bag leaving town.
when you called the other day i was in your housemate's bed but, probably, you already knew, but we talked like old times 'cept instead of 'special' you called me 'self centred,' but i've learned that's what boys call you when you stop fucking them and start someone else but
fuck me dead i'm a poet we're meant to be self centred.
i'm not a bad person i'm not bad i'm not a bad person i'm not stomach crunches on my bedroom floor keeps everything tight and i'm not a bad person up i'm not i'm not down i'm not a bad person my clamshell phone inches from my head we go up we go down
cardigans: folded, washing: put away, essay: unwritten, books: stacked, letters: still there, you; gone, me: somewhere else, these things we do and remember
alone and you're not i'm not bothered 'cause how big is my heart? it grows and grows and grows. it wants to spout big cliches, 'you ripped the skin right off me like an almond, without even parboiling first,' the garbage truck sprays the windows with unflattering light and my hair is as distressed as this essay, as this poem.
we went through our lists together, you know i've had my men before and it's the ones like you i didn't want who rip the skin off just like a goddamned almond.