we always had bleeding hearts so home alone i plant some. i am so weak so the hole isn’t deep so the two plants die in a day.
i fuck someone but don’t feel like it, feel a mouth, hands. leave, hop, knees bleeding, not, red sneakers yelping in yellowing light. yellowing hearts curdled around my front tire.
i find a hat. patched with the very far logo of my first or last love. find a hat, lose my breath. the same old story that keeps getting older. as i do. as i bike home, tiny headlight. blinking. tear tearing down, bright like a planet from here. not a star because my face doesn’t twinkle. mostly i moan. bike past a bus stop tagged Baby Nice Vacancy, as if they can see it, the room in me.
i think of the person i fucked, think, we used to be special to someone. think, i used to believe in my own mythology, that if the right person loved me i could be the person they loved. now the night is heavy with gasoline and tomato vines and whenever i tell this one coworker anything she says oh, but you’re young. yes, exactly, like i said i am blee
emilie kneifel is a sick fish, goo fish, they fish, blue fish (poet, critic, editor, and co-creator of PLAYD8s). find 'em at emiliekneifel.com, @emiliekneifel, and in Tiohtiáke, hopping and hoping.