Alexander Wolf

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My love, you are like the sun, a supernova made human and breathing and beautiful.

And I want more than anything to be able to stand in the light with you;

To not flinch or turn my face towards the shadows.

But it’s difficult, when you live your life behind slatted blinds,

In a darkened room where no one can hurt you.

(Because all you’ve ever known is the serrated edge of a blade, 

And the twisting gore of a body unloved, unwanted, 

Abandoned more times than can be counted)

i think it would be funny if i drowned in the pool

and you held my body—the only way you'd ever be that gentle with me.

limp limbs and clothes stuck to my skin;

i'm never going to be beautiful or thin, or beautiful, or thin—

your eyes don't roam so soon i'll be getting hit by a car in jean cut offs and a crop top.

i'll wear my worst shoes and i hope you wear your fourth best to my funeral.

i hope you stop by for a minute with your coffee still hot in your hand and your boyfriend in the car with the key in the ignition and rap or something blasting through the cold AC air,

windows cracked open just enough for me to hear it in my coffin—i always knew he was a kind soul, the kind of man that could please you—

please, say you thought of me once in the past year, and if i'm lucky you typed and deleted a romantic love letter in messages ("Wyd") before i remember that you don't check your phone,

not for my sorry sake at least.

this is the kinda thing that makes me want to die.

(what am i known for if not my drama?)

so when i find myself sick in the hospital

will you finally return what i left behind?

bring gas station flowers and all my hair ties, stuck in your (my) roomba,

the one i gave up on wanting when cleaning it got to be too much?

maybe even a greeting card from trader joe’s?

you’d think by now i’d have learned to swallow down false hope with my vegetables,

but i guess not, i guess i still find myself thinking of you

when i hug my mom;

but she’s too short and it ruins the illusion.

i keep you and me locked in a box under my bed

and mutter to myself

maybe you’ll come back to me

and send me stupid Instagram reels . . .

maybe you’ll come back to me

“Boss made a dollar Granddad made a dime But that was a poem From a simpler time.

Boss made a thousand Gave pa a cent But that penny paid the mortgage Or at least it paid the rent

What if I just want to be accepted?