I’m far too high, to be embarrassed-
about my thin and flaking skin
or forgetting you hate The Decembrists
smoking too much
wanting to bruise break
your pretty, delicate wrists.
Does it make you squirm, all this evidence?
Of how I was confident in feeling
the obscenity of cards from lovers
cruel photographs of dead friends.
And is it really your mind, that keeps you shouting
cracking slightly as the crowd fades? But listen-
Did you ever pick blackberries?
Pull purple-tongued on pig tails,
Or sneak off with the older ones
to taste sharper, unusual fruit?
Don’t worry, don’t answer.
Back on earth, I’ll feel intrusive
And you will never melt.