green eyed lover, you're out there somewhere
tangled in vines and coffee beans,
cell phone charms
and
oher girls' cries.

little nettled thing, i'd wrap you
in my acid washed denim and
finger-comb your memories
until you fell asleep,
separating strands of fading hair
until the sunset leaked onto your collarbone.

you say i'm the ugliest in months,
and for some reason it brings
laughter bubbling up
until my throat burns, raw and scabbed,
and still a little smile itches at my dimples.
you're disgusted.

i wanted to be the one too thin
resting on the edge of your bed,
bones hanging off the side,
dictating my wish list to your stretched ears:
the camera with the beautiful lens
the vanity mirror with round lights, harsh light
the body of a boy.

you string me up by my ovaries and tell me to
shut up
and
listen.
your eyes are fractals, dizzying
and i can't pay attention to my lesson
can't hear
can't breathe.
you're frustrated

i'm sorry.

the soft of your thighs have gone stale
you're slipping underwater, and the daughter in me
pushes my heel ever so slightly,
watching weak fingers grasp for air,
tapping that faded hair of yours under
down
down
to the bottom
where algae eyes are nothing special.