you should be shot
‘cause everything that leaves your lips just makes me sick &—let’s be honest—I can’t comprehend a word that you say
& every time you bite my neck & touch my waist & kiss my throat I feel like shit
but you live to give me this feeling

this
white stain on my hand reminds me of those days where we were left in the darkroom of the photography lab
& instead of developing pictures we developed a new way to communicate without words but with our bodies
but, just relax, (it’s not what it isn’t) it’s just white-out

I remember
arriving an hour late for school ‘cause the fighting at home was so hell bent on hurting me
& I’d see you outside with your classmates during your gym class, crunching September leaves with your basketball shoes
& we’d lock eyes for one moment & the rest of the day meant nothing

(nothing
until
photography
class)

that’s where I waited to hear you passively whisper, “shits and giggles” in response to my, “why?”’

you should be shot (with film of course)