Untitled Poem

You re-pin my photo

The one of the cute girl with the pixie cut

Lumberjack shirt buttoned all the way up

Just a little bit too butch to be Manic Pixie, though


I’m back in your bedroom,

It’s ten years ago

The smell of sage and copal

Burning in your closet


Where you keep your books on witchcraft

I think a cauldron, too.

I’m not sure

All the things you keep so deep inside

I’m not sure if you even know they’re there


Sometimes we see them together

Home-made bud brownies make us hallucinate

Things we could never tell your mom


Clutching her catholic saints

She tries

But can’t

But can

to pray it away


She throws away your books

Looks at me sideways

She hates that she likes me

I’m a bad influence

So are you


It’s my mom, too.

At a party with some old friends from la prepa

she lets it slip that

she misses her girl friend

who got a little too close


I’m back in your room

In the photographs we took

Looking like jailbait


I’m back in your room

My tongue cut out of my mouth


I’m back in your room


These things

I don’t have the language to speak to


But somehow we do anyway

And you still re-pin my photo


Of the girl with the pixie cut

And the lumberjack shirt

Too butch to be Manic Pixie


And I still utter your name at parties with friends

The girl I got too close to.

I miss you, fool.

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