you will give all of yourself to a boy who won't know you at all.
he will recycle your parts, make you stationary, bind you into
paper that he will gift back so you can write poetry about him.
you, too, say i love you quickly.
when he doesn't say it back, evaporate.
he will kiss you in places you didn't know existed.
until him, you were a peasant in your body's palace.
he crowned you princess, broke the lock of your castle's gates.
when he doesn't say it back, load your cannons.
you are a fountain pen.
look him in the eye when you write him letters on your skin.
when he asks to read them, surrender.
you have always been this way: too eager
to make wildflowers bloom inside of him.
when he doesn't say it back, trim the stems.
when he tells you that your eyes remind him of tree bark,
show him that your gaze is sturdier than nature's limbs.
without breaking eye contact, slowly back him into a wall.
when he expresses discomfort,
ask if he knows what choking is like.
when he doesn't say it back, do not blink.
he will strum your body like a garage sale guitar and set
the case out for spare change. you will jingle like a pocket
and he will make you feel like fire.
when he doesn't say it back, extinguish yourself.
look at him as if these are your last seconds of sight
and you are frantically committing his bone structure to memory.
you are a drowning fish, uncomfortable in your own habitat.
unload your cannons, grow the stems out.
rest your eyes, light up.
do not wait for him to say it back.