I don’t like being in love.
I hate the mess it makes. There’s no safety net in monotony.
It creates deceptive solid-colored vases in the windowsill;
where the water is nearly evaporated, with nothing left to keep another stem satisfied.

 I don’t like being so me.
Homely gapped teeth and wide eyes drunk with self-doubt—
too much skin can be pinched underneath my soul,
and it weighs my chances down instantly.

I don’t like it when men pretend to look at me. Never for me.
That vision, when the eyeball seems straight and focused on my lips;
yet, the groin’s foreshadowing wading heavy against my already bruised hips;
offering a pressure-cooked tongue that never cools down to savor any one taste.

I don’t like to hear you sing. Or should I say, try to.
I envision you in the shower, game show morning tune,
where I win the new car, but it never goes in first gear;
It leaves me stranded in the driveway as the neighbors admire its shine.

I don’t like how you leave during my bodies’ rainfalls,
You disappear at the sight of any loss.
You, tongue-tied and lip syncing poetry so that you may receive a
drenched ego that crescendos into a shady backstreet chase.

I don’t like wanting someone.
I hate the taste of metallic speed on my newly brushed tongue,
but crave safety even inside the fat of my cheek;
The full stomach of the physical always remembers to growl; yet, it seems to forget everything else.

 

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