Jesus forbid you put me down in your history of romance like a list of countries, where you came and conquered.
May I be more like Genghis Khan, spreading out upon the populations and tarnishing the memory of all that once was.

To the boy I love:
may your pants grow tighter, and your shirt grow longer,
so you will not sag your shoulders or hemline in your sadness
or tuck your shirt in, hands in your pockets, when you are in need of a phone.

You won't show because you aren't around, you haven't heard the sound of my cries or your lies, you've only heard what you choose to hear, and I wish so hard that my anger towards you would disappear.