Voices golden like my heart or wait actually my hands ready to swallow flames like hungry moths or wait actually more like a hawk, jagged insides, chemical-drift, the lisped roundness of your scoopneck soft shirt the one you wore on the roof as the moon licked your neck curled behind you like a small mammal how your fur was drenched with bonfire, knee-high reeds

I can’t be sweet, I’d rather tell you in advance, the way your cheek purples with regret the only guiding light I ever needed wait actually I’m sweet when we’re alone and I’ve toed my boots under your desk with a thunk

I believed you always

Get stoned and listen to music by my best friends I meant to write dead but I wrote best but I really meant dead

How dead is nothing more than inertness, a wool coat emptied

Jesse Rice-Evans is a queer poet from North Carolina. Her first chapbook, Soft Switch, was recently published by Damaged Goods Press. You can read her work in Public Pool, Monstering, Moonsick Magazine, and others. Follow her @riceevans for posts about Rihanna, femme supremacy, and teaching writing.