When I kneel
and take the body
it’s in the form of
free samples of
Dior no 37
swiped across the mouth
pretend it’s someone else’s thumb.
I am never going to get old.
Bite into my girl innards
I have no organs inside
just lavender ribbons
neat and dutch braided.
My body is
a refraction
of a refraction
of a Hollister spring summer ad
flattened
adored corpse,
left out under the lights
in the food court.
Reanimated
by blood magic
cherry slurpees
an AIM crush
flung out across America.
Dissolve the plastic coating
of my holy ecstasies
under my tongue
and let the pink
ooze out into the soft walls
the valves,
the living tomb.
I dream with my eyes wide open,
make a map to the future
where I am all wires sizzling
because girls aren’t real.
