after Rina Sawayama
content warning: mentions of self harm
does it count as chasing hurricanes if she looked nothing like
the women who had hurt you? magenta handprints behind
plastic bags & she offered me cut-up fruit like they were
drops of water. sometimes it feels statistically wrong for us to
have met like how could you have my eyes but turn around
gleaming in everything i’m not? my gravestone says an inside
joke. hold the girl until she grows a woman's body–then pluck
her off like a maggot-infested fruit. we can fuck each other up
in one night but it is so unlike you to make mistakes and so
unlike me to recognize i am hurting. split an ethnic dessert
right down the middle. send my love to all the ghosts you’ve
let slip away and hope for a sign if they’re really here. shades
of pinks/yellows/blues stretch into fingertips i cannot cross. i
cut my thigh in front of you but you don’t understand what it
all means yet. still on the carousel, spinning out a fanfiction of
your own childhood. the body i’m thinking about is either an
inner child or it is yours–where do we draw the line if not
vertically down my wrist? all i want is to feel beautiful. i’ve
closed every exit but you find me time after time. touch me,
like north wind, until i find your door–and turn into your ghost.
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