A girl once taught me the delicacies of hidden things.
She made a bible out of the thursday horoscope,
honed a weapon out of the moon’s curved scythe,
the blade a perfect curve to my neck, her hands.
I spider my fingertips over the reminants of night,
unburying braille, the stars splinter into my skin
until I am made of pinholes. I do not hold anything,
her love runs out of me slowly, diluted, meaningless.
Everyone is a collection of lessons, a game to learn,
so I become sweet to everyone, tided over with no
fucks to give. Fold myself into fractaled lists, I am 
this, this, this. She sees me in black and white still,
so I give up being beautiful. This is the second time
someone hopeful has told me I reminded them of
Angeles by Elliott Smith. It means something, but I
don’t gamble anymore. Every game of chance is one 
I loom towards in darkness, invincible if I let myself be,
knowing I’d rather pretend it’s nice to meet her than
ask her to go to hell. Now I thin into only photographs,
so thank god I spent time compressing my life into paper.
My highlight reel is a black screen, an apathetic night sky 
with no signs to guide me into anyone’s poison arms.
I’ll be the hidden thing, the secret revelation better kept
for myself, the hidden message that won’t unspiral.
I’ll never tell, Angeles.