if you pulled my
dna out in lace like coffee you’d
find a girl
who cries over anime
and foreign boys
and has you like a dream
under her eyelids.
careful, my mother said:
it is a thing women do
they make these blossoming fantasies
where the boy leaves kisses up the side of my neck
and smiles at me.
there is something darkly masculine in his intelligence
and when I pull my fingers away from my irises
they are bleeding red with all
the sex dreams
but
my innocence is obvious in the girlish way I bit my lip to
hold back the mind-tears when you smile
because you are so oddly beautiful.
i would like to make this a reality
and not live in my head
it’s up to you, i suppose
because i will otherwise forever be the girl on the sideline
my hair and my smile only over the japanese heartbreak on my phone
because to look up is to see
my own heart breaking in your brown-blue chocolate eyes
again and again and again
the last pavilion 