Vague descriptions of a desirable body
potentially inflame a desire in your own.

So you share my careful constructs
like outfits to be worn, to dress you up,
to accessorize your own romance;
you pretend my shoes are yours,
and twist one lover's freckles, eyes, thighs, and hair
into that person's I've never met who's in your bed.

My five o'clock thoughts
would look great in cursive on a sunset,
would they not?

You steal my place in my own poems,
and stand inside my stanzas,
and make-believe I've died.
Well you can't have them, these are mine!

When someone tells you a story,
do you tell them at the end,
"Cinderella did not exist.
It was me."

Or you're single, and
the description of happy people entwined enrages you,
makes you feel like a third wheel on a website.
But the joke's on you, I'm single too.