Heartmonger
by Elise Smith-Davids
Born in the neon polka dots, you carry
me lush up, it's a black thing,
nightclubbing. I moved a continent and forgot to tell
my two best friends— my exes— believing
everyone could be lost
to change. Orange speckled nightlight sputters
with exhaust outside of this club. You're the Heartmonger: don't
misspeak. Love addiction that
I met last hour, you act like a cut-crude lasso,
crossing the lined booth
brimming with silver jewelry as a man should.
Oh! Hey beautiful, mouth open
— don't move unless I say so. 6a.m. meditation for breakfast, three tart
Sangrias for lunch, and hell-crisp potato for dinner
are on my habit of owning. Each year
I'm stripped by another hand. Please. I prefer unfamiliar faces
learning our birthday suits, for them flat syrup.
Strangers' shiny smiled crescents
create distance, but I'm pear-naked. I am more
likely to strip clothes like flame
when not knowing people. What?
I got too drunk, kissed your neck immeasurable, and haven't
since and haven't since.
Nailed to my own mouth, I do stay alive, as if unaffected.
My body fungible on your freckled smoothie flesh.
Eyes, mine divided
in yours. I move to gaze
at the necklace brushing my collarbone: one ex's prickly chain
through another's lapis ring.
My grief is clawed-out vanity, of exes
so silvering I move as if I am them.