she's a siren.
i'm sure.
i call out her name in poems,
books and books of them and she only likes boys.
i got a stick of gum out of the disclosure
-- she swore it wasn't that bad, honest --
no cheerleader would ever lie
right to your face
at her locker
with line of sight drawn to prying eyes.
the hopeless fool writes every song for me, and i write them back,
i'm like fucking Elvis Costello on Mars,
chasing Betty Boop through a cornfield.
her thighs are thicker than mine.
her gait wider by far.
her breath steady.
she got away.
i didn't.
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