When a man treats interrupters of your conversation as if you are being hunted
every stranger is a sniper                         he looks like heroes in sitcoms

     They told me to clap if I believed in fairies and so I kept clapping until I was 26.           
Clapped for:

                                                                                         Matt Camden
                                                                                         Harvey Kinkle
                                                                                         Dawson Leery
                                                                                         Zack Morris
                                                                                         Cory Matthews

                                             baby-faced do-gooders with an antiquated duty to romance    

he was a pickle in a toque     I’ve followed you for years    a neighbor who gets poetry

I used to be a kind of girl.                                                                                                                                                          
                                               Drew pictures of my wedding and dramatized
                                               the scenes with dolls. Thought about kissing
                                               the same way chief chatters plot conversation
                                               in call centres. Fell asleep on my pillow as is
                                               goose feathers were organs capable of nervous
                                               thuds— enchanting as wallpaper flower patterns.

Look in my eyes because I am telling you I love you.
I haven’t told my mother I love her for years and I—

—I love you and one day I am going to marry you. 

He says it like I am in a forever-line of young women waiting to be chosen.
I feel chosen     Extraordinary human in a cord of other humans    I love You

          You is the kind of girl I aim to cast off but stalls; rooted in me like a seed.

There are a few of us.
                                                Cute: like the dainty ways we strategize giggles
                                                or the charming colours of fingertips on elbows.
                                                That mannerism for drawing a lace curtain over
                                                one’s crux without sacrificing the sparkle; I know
                                                cute girls can umbrella glitter lips to demonstrate
                                                they have thoughts that shower but know silence.

I want you to know that your sex makes me believe in God.
I think you are beautiful. You are perfect.
                                                  I want to make poems of us.                                                                  

I handed myself to him like a doll.
               Big wahh wahh wahh…                       

All boys do it. They take off the clothes, look, then pop off her head.
  My ovule face betrays my embryonic middle          The soft fontanel of my youthful skull              
    sunk into a round white egg           porcelain in my grownup gut
        I think you are beautiful        I want to make poems of us.
I love you and one day I am going to marry you

I should have known:
                                              When I take it like currency then I am selling
                                              him a tool. Who was it that first gifted a hammer
                                              and then taught him the fun of smashing things.
                                              Love like a comet we admire before it crashes
                                              breaking our childhood homes like sitting on old
                                              crackers in a dissolving box. He is a pickup artist.

            When I told you I wanted to write poems I didn’t mean those kinds of poems.
          I do love you but do you know me? I wouldn’t want to date anyone who loves me.
             Nobody’s perfect. I don’t really believe in marriage.      

       Round small yolk ball is a cute yellow       I have learned to unbelieve before
unearthed bulb in my filthy fingers       I believe in anything at all    
   I can’t believe the mess        yellow isn’t a colour
  colours are electricity         objects are mass
  everything is only the names we give to it

He is a pickup artist:
                                                Scout the earnest gawks of girls with braids
                                                and make them feel safe. Say lovely nothing
                                                words your sisters breathed to your sisters
                                                to you in the made-up play of a long ago tree
                                                house game. Groom—like people are ponies
                                                who need their manes ribboned. Please speak:

the way your father spoke to your mother before he slammed the door on her aged figure. Come back and say it again like he did. Come back and say it again like he did.

                        Speak it in whispers. Speak it like coaxing an animal.
                             Swallow her tears in a single gulp, like a heavy shot:
                                                              —like a man.

          he is a hammer with a locked door            a neighbor boy who gets locked rooms
                       Say it like I am one in a forever-line of young women’s faces to jizz on
Your body is like a Kleenex.
I’m going to be real busy.

2:15am   sayin’?
2:30am u up?

            Lying is only a criminal offence in matters of economics and corporations.
                                    The rest is between Immanuel Kant and me.

So I sent those texts:
                                    How terribly inelegant to divulge grisly particulars
                                    of my gimmicky suicide scheme through brash and
                                    unbecoming misspellings. I was unappealing in my
                                    crass diagram of physical manifestations of the way
                                    he made me see myself in lewd deformities. Scars
                                    where my skin was skimmed by his wise knuckles                                   

because this is what a person looks like when they are an egg smashed against heat
—like a person on drugs                    Cracked                    Un-Cute                                Ugly
                                                Your body is like a Kleenex. 
: every cute girl is an egg about to be smashed.

            What no one will say is that women feel and they feel
            in their disgusting bodies, and their bodies are gross,
            they cry like mourning walruses with their stomachs
            wailing against too-tight pants that jiggle glob-like
            mounds of sweaty fat sacks and the wail is in the back
            of their throat where they also vomit from and it is
            colourful and chunky when they puke, not unlike when
            they bleed in sticky clumps of unused uterine lining
            and they piss and they shit and they sometimes get
            the shit on their hands and then don’t wash their hands
            or their hair and they lie on filthy unwashed sheets and
            they let their putrid pits stink and grow hair and they
            let that hair and their pubic hair grow, and they ooze
            white cheese-like crusts into their own bush and leave
            it there or touch it with their shit filled hands and get
            infections that make them noxious and their skin breaks
            out in red spots and the spots have pus and it looks
            like a white worm, a maggot. It is inside of them always.

When I told you I wanted to write poems I didn’t mean those kinds of poems.

                                                            Gazing into the horde of women he’s scorned
                                                            is similar to watching a massacre of butterflies;
                                                            the fairy genocide: little glittery liars lying back
                                                            to the ground—wingless—clap, clap, clapping
                                                            for themselves like their self-inflicted blood
                                                            swamp is really a powdery effluvium of glittery
                                                            pixie dust. No—only yolk, vulgar dead seed:

believing the God
                        you believed in
                                                when you had sex with me 

                                               Look in my eyes because I am telling you I love you.

He is a pickup artist:
                                    Hammer in hand he heads to a local bar. Young thing
                                    with a waist is ending her shift. He’ll shoo away other                     
                                    customers when she tells him about her childhood. He
                                    acts like the heroes in sitcoms. He’ll leave her a large tip
                                    for the service she doesn’t yet know that she’s going to
                                    provide him. He jokes. Clapping, she shoots him a smile.