i hate most writers and stories.
they tell you what people look like—
i’m going to tell you what i feel like.

like my eyes are looking but
they’re painted over, all black (stupid kids)
and i can see is you.
i should really get that fixed
but maintenance is out this week and no one comes up here anyway

like my arms should be around your neck forever
and i’d never want to put them down
but that would make me just a statue with no one else except
birds
because you’ll move on

like my heart
(of course my heart this is l.o.v.e. what’s a heart without love?)
((fucking boring and gross))
mine’ll jump
and break and bleed all over
it’ll fill with helium and pull me up along with it
which could be a problem—my ceiling’s not so high
it’s trying to speak but my mouth is staying closed. for now. at least until i feel i can’t hold it any longer.

my hair color changes a lot
my eyes are green/blue/grey
i’m thin
(wasn’t what i feel
a little more…
interesting?)