ALL MY FRIENDS KNOW I’M BROKEN, WE FOLLOW EACH OTHER ON SPOTIFY.

Some nights I want a public death. I want

to have a funeral under a fragile moon with lavender

and people who care about me but have names

I don’t care enough to ever remember. I want

my therapist to listen to my midnight playlists with me

so she knows who she’s up against. I would die for many people

because I love untransactionally. I honestly prefer soft

economies where we trade biggest intimacies.

My secret is that I would wear my bones on my sleeves

if I didn’t get disapproving looks on the streets. I’m not perfect

but I would live naked if I could. Strangers could call me

crybaby and I’d thank them for the kindness. I’m grateful

for the internet because no one else understands me.

I tell all of this over the phone to Madison, who doesn’t listen

to Mitski, and that’s the difference between us;

I’m no longer ashamed of my desire.