Coughing up the cheapest spraypaint
on the floor in a strangers bedroom.
The girls drank my watered down story,
they’ll think of you, continents away
parading your half-sung mania,
pitting cherries with your teeth
like some man’s wet dream, some
pixie girl with the dark-eyes, smile, 
some bad replica of the better thing.
You’re only alive on camera, while I
breathe sweet cigarettes, wildflowers,
straight from the mouths of nymphs,
these girls, drunk and glimmering
attentively assemble likes butterflies
on my sugared hand, comb my hair,
mix me peach Lipton in paper cups.
When I say it out loud it makes sense,
in a foreign language trying to simplify
your existence, they’re sorry for your sins
like I feel anything about the bullshit
glossing my lips. You’d think I would’ve
gone home crying that entire spring.
It’s funny because I’ll forget every line,
yet the verses sit dormant in the blue glow
of my phone, weapons to protect against
ever changing my mind. What’s on paper
is out of my head, means I don’t feel it, so
when I’m done writing you’ll be forgiven.
You can’t change how you appear
charoaled onto my journal, not pretty,
each crosshatch growing into a monster.
Its a good story for the drinking game,
sweeter people whispering about how
even in this cruelty they’re better than you,
and at least they’re honest. The stars spin
falling arrows, I’m surrounded by archers,
who let me love everything now, much more
than pacivity, domesticity, more than you.