another, because the arches in the sky aren’t electric enough\ you make the mistake of telling me you want someone to die for you, lose your composure in the early morning. 

in a lab, poised by a burette worth more than my past three outfits put together, the dark red liquid in your beaker

beige-boy holds it out to me, asks me to smell it, i try to and the world moves fast to pull it away, your eyes wide, cheeks high and pretty 

i’m not the type of person you ask those questions