the takeaway you treat me to yesterday after
physics exam was delicious, even more so when
we did it in the underground corners you
discovered on this stifling campus. for once
i became a complacent fugitive:
the rare adventure for a straight-a.
last time i broke down in front of you you
made a rebuttal on each one of
my problems. emoji: crying mirth&wry smile. what else
can I say? you said if i don’t buy your
arguments you’d swallow my pains like tiny
capsules. you’re a genius debater.
i feel like i attend debate
competitions to no avail.
i booked morning call service from you, my
valet. a new day’s hullabaloo seems soft and
light as a feather when you linger on the
calls for a little more while just to listen to
a buffoon’s morning gibberish.
you’re girls’ public assets (my asset)
you should know that. that’s why it’s unfair that
the slutty gal ogling at you could
occupy you. sure she plays minecraft better, has
time to hang out on the streets with you all
day long, kisses you more times than
the number of your footsteps, and bothers to
leave love letters in your backpack —
she’s less of a writer than me.
i’ve got an A plus on literature.
i’m gonna be an english major.
and i still can’t believe that’s how i became the
taster for the plays and poems
you strained your barren mind to write
for her.
i think i just wanna unload myself
the way people do at spas.
you’re my spa. i’d perch on your laps and lean
against your solid chest, press the stop button
so my wings suspend the tedious fluttering —
i’d be enormous. and i’d listen to how you
lost your video game replying to
my messages, how you got into trouble with
the teacher (he’s a nasty piece of work) helping out
your buddy, how your artistic dreams were repressed
into a series of narcissistic acts by
paternalism (paternalism sucks at hell), and how
you confine the duration of that
sadness to only two minutes. my eyes
half-closed, my chortle unstoppable. a cynical zoe
streaks in a carefree zelda’s world. The
paradise of a footless bird
that doesn’t wanna die flying
is a blurry notion that
resolves into a vivid mirage.
it pops up in the daytime
and follows me into sleep.
it’s a fantasy.
it’s only mine.
