The Victorians honored human hair
because it was the only trait of the body
that remained after death. I shaved my legs
in your shower. I hid long strands of myself
in your pillowcases. That is all that is left.
Thinking of someone else during sex
is a cardinal sin punishable by nothing.
The heart is wanting. The heart
is perpetually two-years-old. The heart
is bad at sharing. The heart is a hungry
gas tank. The heart is not a metaphor.
When the teacher asks you what grade
you think you deserve, you will always say B+.
90% of Americans will vote from Obama
because the night before the election, he will
slow dance with his wife and kiss her forehead
and we will want so badly to believe that
they actually fucking love each other.
Writing a list of ways I could be better
and writing a suicide note are the same thing.
The heart lives in a packed elevator.
It doesn’t know what floor its waiting for
but it wants it wants it wants to get off.
The Victorians believe when you write a poem
from an airplane that moment becomes suspended
in the sky forever, like a ornament in God’s mobile.
So now you know: somewhere between Phoenix
and Las Vegas, a thousand miles up, there you are
like a grocery list pinned to blue.