Thursday June 29, 2017
From a text
You told me that you wanted to take my picture
but when you did
seventeen weeks later
it was a roaring disappointment.
I thought you got me like you had
actually read my birth chart
like you actually knew
the last four digits of my phone number.
I thought you were joking when you said
you had a girlfriend.
What kind of women am I when I hate on
her for being on your lips
when we’re naked?
What kind of woman am I when I shove off
and over and imagine the stillness of her
there a phantom limb of a maybe?
Maybe it has nothing to do with
the woman-ness that I always
bring it back to.
Maybe my bottom line is a
different kind of colour.