Sweatsong

I like to pretend that I know

how it is.

That not everybody

is meant to be.

But still I wish

I transform

into the man of your dreams,

into the very rose that pours

its blood in your sleep.

I like to pretend that I know

that it's not a thing

of adults to be

lovesick.

It's not a thing

of adults to be

me.

My pillow is

so heavy with secrets,

so soaked the shirt

I lay with.

I like to pretend they're the tidiest,

driest, most immaculate bedclothes

you have ever seen.

You never see my face before

I rinse.