three poems


the love hotel will always be something.

whatever costume you want me in, order it in,

ill barely move. I’ll dip my fingers in bath water

lazily feeling fucked and not that horny.

when you go to the plastic bag of beers

for the sixth time, you’ll say something about my

breasts and how they do not fill up that dress

you like and you’ll be talking and you’ll be talking

and you’ll be talking or something.

new york city.

sent you home a picture of my naked chest and

you were like,  shit is dangerous on the internet

for your sake I’m deleting that and when I

ordered a small iced coffee it was twice the

size of my head and I hugged it like a real

boyfriend or a baby which seemed appropriate

considering the circumstances I guess.


 it was raining.

it was raining so we hung our wrists over the balcony

i said “do you have fire” in terrible german

everyone giggled nervously until someone

handed me a lighter, wet from the rain and so

we watched the football on a large tv in his bedroom

sitting stiff next to each other acutely aware

of not touching and Italy won, I think.

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