i.

i thought the highest number

on a scale from 1-10

was 10

until you got new glasses

and angels started crying.

23, already having lived

3 lives—

each one a little less

depressing than the last—

like a box that keeps one more cigarette each day.

homeless

(emotionally)

but no longer physically

because you’ve already conquered that life.

sexual tension

that reminds you of those weird

middle school dances

only made weirder by those

~pictures~

you and i exchanged.

but like any love story,

there’s a caveat:

the girlfriend.

a minor bump—

in the road, not her—

holy shit

wouldn’t that have been a great twist?

ii.

stupidity is assuming

that maybe you would

crack a smile in my bed,

post 17-hour shift

after what felt like weeks of curiosity.

only 2 to be exact,

the perfect high—

14 days,

a game not quite as long or severe

as the one that dismantled you

almost 2 years back.

my navy duvet

never stood a chance

the second you stepped foot

in my lobby

to make real

those photos we sent.

the angels—

they wept

even after the glasses came off

and the hair tie fell

but especially when

your body pierced mine.

what happened

to that minor bump—

the girlfriend?

iii.

tell me what it’s like

to be independent

but mentally and physically

trapped.

23, already having crafted

3 versions of yourself—

one for her

one for me

and one for the 34,000 others

who remember your name.

tell me how it feels

to live multiple lies

so that i’m made to be

the antagonist

every time.

now, let me tell you about

the weeping cloud

you’ve so cleverly hung

above my head—

the days and nights

i was forced to watch myself

crumble under minor actions

that prompted my heart’s most

heavily weighted reactions.

tell me why you came back

to the room with the navy duvet

but most importantly,

tell me,

how is the girlfriend?