We love in holy positions.
You catch a glance
of my profile
I pray you won’t notice
my stubby nose
flattened from years
spent in Junior High,
drilling stares into quary tiles,
my head on the desk in study hall;
hope you won’t be put off
by my protruding upper lip
cascading, noticeably condescending.
“Do you think he likes me?”
she’ll weigh me down
with her answer
like leftover spaghetti at 3 am,
put me back where I belong—
dreaming of broken tiles
locked in the second floor bathroom.
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