you tell me not to, but i
don't remember your name,
so i still introduce
you as the pride and joy of
the city while you're splintering your
thighs on shitty cars, panting, "fuck
you, fuck you." you're not a
calendar man and i'm not a
barbecue girl and i'm out
of chapstick, so my
breath whistles through the cracks in my
lips. i keep my hands in my pockets so
my scarf can scrape into my throat. "let's
go," i urge. i breathe, i smoke, i'm
tired of kissing bare trees and protected
bus stops. you take
painkillers instead of names, and i
accept drinks from a lot of
people who aren't you.
caffeinated, you stick your picture on a
bench and the campus tilts towards
it. "wanted," it says, like
i'm the one who ties you to these streets.