boys.

they’ve got me strung up.

i am a sweater, thick string; warm,

hunger envelopes me and i do what i can.

 

i’m out on this fence to dry

like all the others,

but where is the laundrist?

 

cotton sheets and linen raincoats,

what is the matter,

did i make you this way?

 

i truly believe in his pattern,

our outfit created art,

but it was summer

and my accent was no longer needed.

 

he went for something more appropriated

to our season.

oh how he’ll miss me

when the seasons change.

i will break free of my chains

as the wind pulls me away

 

remorse is not my language.