I’m hand-stitched boiled-quick streaking the road with stolen words, looking for a place to cry, cold two o’clock adrenaline pulling you with me. You walk instead of run. Stop and watch me lay in the street, hand over heart, your own undead ra: quick to judge, even quicker to burn, I could cut out the beginning for you with my fingernails and spend all night sucking them clean. Look up. I could tell you everything you want to hear from someone else. 

this is reaction. this is reacting. this is where my voice goes to scream. this is being a floor-sitting loser. this is your shoulder. this is flirtation. this is new medication. this is me wanting something i shouldn’t. this is you telling me we’re too similar. 

Tuck me into your bed and leave me to tremble, go think that maybe this glass-smashing trans body you’ve wrapped around your words is just putting on a show. Go think for yourself, go lay like a dog and wallow in the warm. 

this could be playing pretend. this could be unpacking the night. this could be running far from home. this could be the heart-shaped calluses on your knuckles. this could be earthquakes in mine. 

You would be soft, I’d like to think, the two of us unfurling between pages and pen stains. All I want is a glance; but I know you already: choking on silence and telling me Please, we can’t do this again.