I am refusing to write you a love letter.
Dabbed in green and purple watercolor feelings
of the Tallahassee summer we’re living in.
Speckled with moods and lighting,
missing the components of cheap desire
brought on by a mixed tape and
deep red wine that I’ve never actually tasted.
Why write you a love letter when I can love myself?
Or when I can write about the uncertainty of love?
Why write a love letter that you’ll read,
but not understand?

(i kissed another boy)

forgetlings:

There will be other beds but mine
Other hands but my hands
Yet inside me you are inside all of me

I am taken & made for the love you leave
Your lips fill deep with red
I come like a coral reef

Beneath
My soul & time have a beating heart
It shakes your breasts.