tell me the long scar on your face really belongs to you,
too rough to lay on your sweet sixteen skin,
a fibrous bridge
trailing down to the sleeve
of that blue t-shirt of yours
printed with the name of some punk band,
its ink bloated by the wash
i rub the letters
to dig my fingers into your chest--
don't you know what i feel about
you, who
makes piles of newspaper
in the corner of the school coffee shop,
to hide from the undergraduate girls
who move closer and closer
in-between your legs
spreading your hips,
to suck on you
like a wad of that newspaper--
yet you
with all that black hair sulking in front of your face,
how could you care about anything really at all--
how could you care about me?
oh really it's nothing, the skin
to skin contact, our mouths that night
collapsed upon each other
and i continue to collapse over
the hands, self indulgent for that hour--
don't worry it won't be
remembered for too long--
but if you could give me a chance
perhaps we can start over
and collapse and collapse again.
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