We play our lives to a radio track.
You whisper words like “baby”
while your fingers play down
my spine as though they’re all
disjointed piano keys;
I suppose I’m just
a broken record by now,
skin scratched to warp
the melody of “me,” a
fractured rhythm of what it means
to be human,
held in too many absent hands.
Does this define me as “desirable?”
Call me a hipster, but I’d just say that it
labels me as most mainstream music
can be: low.
And easy to reach.
Gender:
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