was the inside of my notebook.
My lips did lines
off her body,
little straight-edged clues
to her crooked ways of thinking,
of smiling.
We danced
in that way you can’t talk about,
tripped over holes
in each others' faces.
I could not help but wrap
my kisses around her spiral spine.
She undid my vocal cords
with her teeth,
glittering promises
in a sea of college-ruled correct.
I stood erect for her,
prepared to tear myself in half
simply to keep her whole
sacrifice the calf of my pride
for the slaughter,
for the happy.
She left me
for every writing utensil
that she could convince
to graffiti her walls.
I have since convinced myself
that she will one day grow
unbearably yellow-faced and
unrecognizably wrinkled.
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