The blood spots on the bathroom floor are shaped like Hawaii.
I move my phone to my other ear,
examine myself in the mirror.
I’d like to tell my sister about
the boy on my floor who kissed me when
he was drunk and I was lonely but
I am thinking only of the boy
who’s life I saved after
he broke my heart.
Yeah, we don’t talk
anymore.
I think I’m supposed to feel sad about
what happened
although I don’t, at least
not really.
But I’m lying when I say that
I don’t care at all, and
mentally kicking myself
for speaking in half-truths.
I don’t want to fall in love again
for a while
unless it’s with myself.
So I say something
about the planetarium yesterday
and how shitty the metro has been.
Later,
I lay in my bed with the window open
and listen
as buses pass on intervals
in the early morning.
