wouldn’t it be nice if someone was secretly in love with me—
loner, an under-used word in the poet’s dictionary, but it tattoos nicely into her
softer eyelids fraying, against her cheeks. against her intellect.
wouldn’t it be nice if someone found my answering all the univere’s questions–
adorable–and not awkward–
the shifting impatient eyes when she raises her hand yet again in the religion class.
the strangers online seem to like her heartbreak.
loner: ravens, soiled fingers, dark fraying sweaters. and coffee. music always
tight in her earbuds—and maybe
a boy looking at her from the sidelines, only just interested. wouldn’t it be nice if
we all had worth, if we all had this much confidence.
if she walked into university and even the floor tiles fell in love with her, but that is too
much to hope for, outside the forest. it’s a romantic thing to be hurt by a boy and to
make it art but life is not so kind—
wouldn’t it be nice if I was someone else’s heartbreak, someone else’s poetry—
two black companion volumes. best-sellers. and, loners.
the last pavilion 