Edited Tried to modify this poem, I didn't feel that it came off correctly the first time.

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self-defeat
is me violently violet in
a bathroom stall
worshipping
your Magdalene images stolen
from your locker with my
stuttering eyes like silent cartographers
naked feeling
to the landscape of your lips
a matrix of holy serenity

i cannot strenuously sweat
my intellect on you the way
he compliments
and rewards
and stuffs
himself with one plus one kisses
on the crown of your forehead

you love being a slut-princess
posing as an exotic cherub
from across the Garden of Eden
where angel men
pig out to watch she-devil porn

i have no conscious vocabulary to
express my third eye, except, it has
feelings right now
like crusty leaves after a caterpillar
rapes it or, sweaty pilgrims between their
promised land and sermons from holy men

i guess what i’m trying to punctuate between
the lines is i feel like a worn out
pair of shoes; invisible
before you even acknowledge me
by acquaintance
like we’re already over with
before any kind of relationship starts

and that leaves me

baffled, why
can’t i just have an affair
with my pen
and ask
you
out already?

my fingers drip like poison as i
place your photo album back in your locker
my eyes turn back to morality and I don’t feel
pathetic anymore

the circumference of my needs
dissolve, intense, longing, all gone
until you come back, walk, and i’ll stalk your shadow

some more;
feel that unrequited pang
of frustration, as you touch
door knobs, table tops, and hearts with your smiles

while i think, how much

i want to be boyfriend material too...