It is summer again
and another boy disguises himself as a man.
My mother says I find chameleons –
how their colors seem safe at first,
then become venomous.
Casual is not in my bones.
I am a girl writing poetry
on the subway ride back to 42nd Street
about a lover, I cannot call home.
I sit with this funny feeling
and curse my stupidity like it is the antichrist.
I tire easily of these life lessons,
of these games
of cat and mouse;
of archer and prey.
For once,
I want to be chosen
and let the icy exterior of
grief and gravedigging melt away.
But I remain at the crime scene,
overanalyzing the ability of anyone to love these wounds.
Tears beg to fall on the subway ride back to Port Authority
but raw emotions are no match
for the medications my psychiatrist prescribes.
So, instead of letting oceans spill,
I open my Notes app
and write about
how I know this is the end,
even as you text,
“Are you free next week?”
My mother applauds my intuition –
says that if I can trust one thing,
it is my gut.