I go everywhere and want to be kissed.
What does it say about me that I change my
perfume every time I get a new boyfriend?
Lately I walk to places with headphones on
and let myself be sad when the music says
I should be. I’ve become cliche: Drinking lattes
and posting pictures of the food I don’t even
eat online. I get excited over everyone else’s
excitement. I do the things single girls can
get away with, like letting him stick his hand
up my skirt and search until I say yes, until I say
don’t stop, until I am breathing in so deeply
that his hair gets stuck in my throat. I have sex
in public restrooms and watch myself in the mirror.
His hand on my ass. His mouth on my shoulder.
I cannot write a better poem than this.