Reasons Not To Date Your Twin.

Your metal
is in my skin,
your rice
is in my belly,
your dead meat
is inside me,
your wine has stained my lips.


When you bit me,
I could feel you

puncture them purple.


You clawed my back
and bit into my skin;
your tongue swam
in my ears and I

wanted to die.


So I cried
bright blue tears
and left stains on your pillow
and your cheeks.  Stop giving me
your blood kisses.  I am a whore.
I am a whore.  I am a whore.  I am a

sorry whore.


You tell me I am exactly
what you are looking for, and I say
you are like a bird looking for the sky.
I am like a black hole, billions
of light-years away from

anything.


I am writing a poem about you
as I watch you through the glass,
sitting outside,
smoking.

It would be funny if people knew
what was going on.  They'd see the
heart-broken girl who thinks too highly of herself,
like a rock & roll song.  They'd see the
incredibly good-looking volleyball player chain-smoking,
heart-broken like a textbook.

They might be able to see
bunk-bed kisses.
They might be able to see
the wine you poured me
at night,
and the fresh orange juice
you hand-squeezed me when I woke up.
They might be able to see us eating
a plain rice breakfast, quietly.

I can see you staring at me
until I look at you.
I can see you reading
the book I lent you.

I hope some part of me
was worth it.