stop hoping and stop hurting get
out of your head and accept
the very aesthetic and terrible life of always
being alone.
i guess i look good in black, anyway, even if
it’s always metaphorical (i can’t sell myself so
cheaply, sorry). but there is truth
in the long singular days of staring
out the windows for a human kindness that isn’t there
not for me, anyway, because i
am something else, maybe, though without choice or reason.
the problem with falling in love
with people who are nice to you
is that they were just
being nice.
how am i supposed to explain: eye contact that makes me human is
so rare it’s like sex and your smile is brilliant anyway, so it’s
a perfect mental fantasy.
only the grey between the spinning hells in my head and
what is always happening to me in reality
is choking me up, my neck bound by wildflowers and cheap masculine
ribbon. but if i stop the dreaming there is
no point
so i will be miserable for ever, i guess
the last pavilion 