How I feel about you is smoking a cigarette in the rain.
I think about walking into traffic, and suddenly, your dick.
I think about a yellow line and then a road and then an animal.
And nothing rises up. And horror is a verb.
I want to forgive myself for overindulging.
Food-delivery men see me without a bra more than anyone else.
My body is an argument I did not start.
In a way I am not aware who made me.
I bow down to a deep plea.
When strangers call my name I feel like a white girl.
Skin in reverse and a quiet pussy.
Nothing helps me not think about universes.
I’m funny because I know nothing matters.