the mystery, the murders; you sound like
foreign words or fitzgerald
writing alone in rose colored
wine; you text like an AI chatbot but i
take the blame mostly. listening to regina
spektor in the car: do you love me do you
love me, says my sister my mother
the general throng. how do i explain, i want
airplane ecstasy also sex. to loose ten
(no, fifteen) pounds, spend money
on gap years and aesthetic
starvation. i don’t know what
what i want;
your texts taste
like spit, like “fuck” in five
letters or misato-san
sleeping with her boyfriend
because he is unit 01,
her childhood father.
poem: blonde highlights
the last pavilion 