The locker tastes sour…
If I ever call you mean it’s only because
I can’t believe in you as anything but terror
for you encounter me and pull me into it,
a victim (less) victim.
Do not lie I know you’ve thought of me clearly
so please refrain from the terr(her)
of your naming,
your attempt at an unmasking
and your terminal naming
for you, for others,
but it is never me
the locker tastes sour
and a tear that never drops onto an empty floor
but a wet one
the surface is drenched
and I will drench you
with soft hands,
warm looks,
shared coffees,
and instead we will name ourselves to each other
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