i squint up at the sun— mistake me for the golden child, lover. mistake me
for another time of year.
you are summer in italy, two thousand one. you are spring break and petite patisseries. i am no longer
sorry that i am autumn on fire, october in the rain. i am more sorry that you
do not see what i see in myself. i am sorry that you do not see how incredible i shine.
i am uncut diamonds, white gold, new york underwater. there is something film-like about the way you said goodbye. there is
something dream-like about the way you bit your lip.
okay, maybe i am calling nightmares by other names. i call her a dream while she slits my throat. you do not
get to tell me about the moon anymore. i will sink into a crisis on my own.