poem: foolish games

i won’t tell you his name but

it’s very beautiful still inside my mouth

and i could have civilized him and

brought that innocence softness of him

into everyday candlelight.

the places where i go, now,

are only places where he smiled at me


but all is fiction and idealized in this locked

box inside of me

and my mind, which he

maybe would have softened.

i am mourning something

that never


i am licking at the burn scars

of a grand, fantastical

what if

and i am only nineteen years old.

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