I do not trust myself 
to be loved by a stranger, 
so I pose in lingerie 
for my close friends 
and wait 
for one of them 
to fall for it. Jo tells me 
i’m on queen shit and 
Ryan says that I’m iconic 
and someone inquires 
where I found my lime 
green lace. And I am full 
until the fizzing returns
in my belly, 
and reminds me 
what a waste it is 
to be this young and peachy 
with no one to sip of me. 
And Derek is five miles away 
and loves the Office 
and adventures 
and likes my blue hair 
and wants 
to know if I think 
a hot dog is a sandwich, 
but I want to know 
what he thinks 
of socialized medicine, 
and I think I already know 
the answer, 
so I delete the app 
from my phone. 
When I try to tell twitter 
I’m a hopeless romantic, 
it autocorrects 
to hopeless tomato, 
and I am exposed 
for how thin this skin, 
how seedy and squishy
my insides, how ready, 
how begging I am to burst. 

Sarah Robbins is a queer writer originally from Oklahoma. She has work in (or forthcoming from) Carte Blanche, Thin Air, Pretty Cool Poetry Thing, and others. She spends her free time sewing and trying to make her friends laugh. Follow her on Twitter (@/saaraahkate) or Instagram (@/tri_saraahtops).