What a shame it is that beautiful women
must do everything beautifully. Against
a wall at some house party, this one goes
down slow. The man who slides in to sit beside
her looks and sees how blue light nestles
a crescent moon into the cupid’s bow
of her lips. He looks and sees her negative
space, dreaming himself big enough to fill it.
He thinks himself very clever, doesn’t notice
the color draining from her the longer he talks.
Two hours later she’ll collapse alone.
Three hours later she’ll wake up, this writer separated
by three feet and a hospital curtain.
Close enough to hear her mumble to the nurses
as they undress her like a doll.
My name is Neha. I’m going to be a doctor. You will,
I think, because I still want to be things too, despite myself.
What a shame it is that beautiful women are always bleeding,
but inwards. Somewhere so deep that even love
can’t tie a tourniquet.