ALL MY FRIENDS KNOW I’M BROKEN, WE FOLLOW EACH OTHER ON SPOTIFY.
Some nights I want a public death. I want
to have a funeral under a fragile moon with lavender
& people who care about me but have names
I don’t care enough to ever remember. I want
my therapist to listen to my midnight playlists with me
so she knows who she’s up against. I would die for many people
because I love untransactionally. I honestly prefer soft
economies where we trade biggest intimacies.
My secret is that I would wear my bones on my sleeves
if I didn’t get disapproving looks on the streets. I’m not perfect
but I would live naked if I could. Strangers could call me
crybaby & I’d thank them for the kindness. I’m grateful
for the internet because no one else understands me.
I tell all of this over the phone to Madison, who doesn’t listen
to Mitski, & that’s the difference between us;
I’m no longer ashamed of my desire.
My name is Sam and I write poems.