I'm so fucking sick of lying to boys.
sparing their hearts, that are so fully exposed to me.
(shoulders and sleeves)

not unlike, the first time.
(our first time) which was-
nothing like the second time,
that's a story I never tell.
or the third, who had the same name as the
fourth, who Iim still fucking.
but they all mean nothing, when it comes to number five.
(5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5-5) the wide hand, fingers open boy.
(whom I spread like sweet sugar on my toast)

that's how I want it. that's how I want it to be.
too late for noise, and romantic words.
when I'm thin enough, to fit through your walls.
.

.:slight carry-over of a few other posted poems. 'five' and 'it's hard to believe its not butter':.