I’m not your friend.

I didn’t and still don’t want to be your friend.
A clear diamond, ruby or some other cold gem
absorbing arrows and pretending I’m not bleeding
through my mesh jersey; soiling the white letters.

These words are cast-in-place for extra durability.
Dominican concrete, suitable for vertical growth
to ensure any city can rise from a love built on
this perfectly random plot of brown land in Jangsu.

As a small warning though…there are hidden spaces,
due to past loves and certain Brooklyn fragrances.
Rooms under the earth that live in my body but
are not reflected by the double door elevator smile.

Let’s fire straightforwardly, without mixed tapes.
I’m not your buddy, despite the polite digital notes
so close your eyes and fall asleep into thick quilts
but remember one thing…I’m not your friend.


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