they’re coming for me and I can’t seem to

find a headstone small enough to
frame this spot,

look you in your green thumping eyes,

move like I own it,

finish you

or find the light switch.

I can whimper in a book

I inscribe to the tune of a dead boy’s voicemail

that I forgot to erase countless times

but stories only count if they rhyme:

I can do tempo,

I can do pace-perfect violence,

I can do boudoir,

I can teach others how to love in silence

(the secret is to nibble their ear lobes
in heels & then

I can do you and walk away

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