to take the knife out of your back,
would mean that I care,
but I don't seem to be able to

saw you in the school yard today,
blue shirt, my favorite color on you
and you smiled, even though
I left you standing with jarred up
bones covered in pixie dust,
(I coated it in heroin too, just to get you fucked up)

didn't know what hit you,
next day you woke up with me,
ran out, ran home, ran to work,
ran, ran, ran everywhere,
making yourself busy so that you wouldn't
have to think about any of it.

because really, who wants to face the truth?
that you, my dear, fell in love with a curly haired,
brown skinned, middle class latina.

because really, who gives a fuck that it's the 21st century
because really, who cares if nobody cares when white people
and brown people get together.
who cares if two boys or two girls get together.
who cares?
who cares?

oh, that's right my dear.
you do.

do you feel dirty? do you feel contaminated?
do you?

you do.

to really want an answer from you,
would mean that I care,
but I don't seem to be able to,

because really,
I hope that the feel of my skin,
my lips, my breasts,

I hope the sound of my voice,
moans, whispers,

I hope that my face, my hair,
and the way I ask a million questions,

is seared deep into your memory.

because really, that's what you deserve,
that's the worst punishment for you,