i don’t want to be sexy
or gorgeous, or stunning,
for fuck’s sake i don’t even like the word beautiful
“but damn girl, you’re so hot”
perhaps it’s something you’d like to be, but for me, i’d rather not
because if that’s all they have to say
then it means that’s all you’ve got

i want to be a twist in someone’s plot
the grocery list you wrote down twice just in case you forgot
the laughing whisper of the net
after my own buzzer-beating free throw shot
and i don’t even like basketball
but i want to be the referee’s first good call
the foul ball you barely caught in a stadium of taller arms and bigger hands
all crowded in the stands but you were sitting in the right spot,
i want to be the bottle service bought with last week’s rent
money you didn’t have but you’ve already spent
and I might not know which way I’m going but I tell a good story
when it comes to where the wild things went

i want to be profound
i want to be tectonic plates shaking earthquakes
through your underground, humming a natural disaster tune
to make your deaf heartstring
composers wish they could read sounds, could read
the thrumming sirens of my fire-engine-red-lipsticked
bulldozer orchestrating your howling like an Elvis Presley dog
’cause you ain’t nothin’ but a hound

but enough about you
and a little more about me

i want to sea like my eyes are oceans crashing on all the
deep-dark-secret sands of someone else’s undiscovered lands
i want my fingers to lick you with every
lashing of lonely broken lovers’ flyaway kite words
because i don’t know how many times i’ve heard
“don’t do it again” with a “seriously” and a
“haven’t you learned your lesson?” tacked on the end,
but one of my worst habits is that I tend not to listen,
and so planets quit orbiting mid-turn, trying feverishly to fashion me
some constellationed hearing aids while I spend too much time
pouring melted summer-flings-fool’s-gold to glisten under my eyelids,
dialing 9-1-1 to shooting stars so that I can blame all my Prince Charmings
for each and every one of the messes I’ve made,
begging my dead-beat fairy godmother to send her til-the-clock-strikes-twelve ambulance
with a magic spell to sew up my unhappily ever after scars because
letting my wish boned ribs break seemed a lot simpler
than guessing how much farther they could bend or how much more they could take

i want to get into the college major of studying footprints
you see, i’ve gotten tired of typing up essays on
all the empty things people tend to say
but if i can get some bulletpoints down on the steps they’re taking
to put together a power point of where they’re going
sooner or later i’ll find someone who’s half-drunk stumbling my same way
and i want to stay with my nose drawing circles on banned beaches
with my fingertips tracing the ghostly dips left in the tanned reaches of your skin,
in case they might be the puzzle pieces that could fit into the
unfilled spaces between my hands

i don’t take compliments well
but i’ll write my best impression of a self-help book
because i’m still trying to sell myself on the idea
that whoever ends up stealing my heart

doesn’t have to be a crook