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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