"is it weird to say that i like the shape of your face?"

i feel like a half smoked cigarette butt beside the curb of your house.
cold, charred, and utterly tasteless
they can all see the way i glance at you, maybe a second or two too long
and they can all hear the way my voice shifts an octave higher when you look at me with your miserable fucking eyes
("cool, cool, tight")
i love those eyes.
there's this push and pull and push and pull that drags me to and fro and all i can do is think limply
i'm not a faggot. i never have been
they can all say differently
i'm weak and angry and bent out of shape like anyone else
i hate my nicotine teeth and my iodine demeanour
and i hate those ugly jeans that you wear
and i hate how nice you look while wearing them
and i hate your bruised knuckles and i hate your freckles and i hate the stained gauze around your left shoulder
but it's too late, the cat's been let out of the bag and caught my tongue and all i can do is stare bitterly
the faucet drips and drips and drops to the beat of that one song by insert-somewhat-well-known-indie-artist-here that you mentioned you liked (once)
and i shake off the beads of sweat on my wrists
and suddenly you're next to me again - miserable eyes, bruised knuckles, stupid smile.
and oh, bite me.

04/22/23
- ch.rlie