Poetry by L. R. Bird


the not-boy slices my thighs open with their knife/tongue
looks up at me, says                   you know, i’ve never
fucked someone who looks like you, before

oh?                     yeah, it feels                  nice

i say darling. say baby. say suite. say the same thing. say suiteheart. say it again.
everyone tells me on the phone i sound unexpectedly sexy.
everyone remembers they had an ex-lover who was awful at dirty-talk.
they want me to remind them how voices can cower.
they want me to say lover. lover. lover. like someone else used to.

someone i like wants me to know they found someone exactly like me.
same laugh same                   hands same                   hair
oh, if only i could meet them too, i would see what they mean–

the not-boy forgot they had a knife/tongue and tried to lap at an old wound
but ended up slicing them-self open and
asks me why i never mentioned this apparatus

oh god, i just wanted to be special
i just wanted to be loved by someone in the right name

the not-boy is crying because i do not help them clean up the blood
looks up at me, says                   i wish you were              someone else

oh?                someone              familiar
with better       hands

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