It is last year, and my clothes here are blue and large. 
The snowflakes started falling like the words I cannot say 

I would rip my chest open if I could not make a scene 
and I would ask you to take out the tangled-up shit. 
You’re happier than me, can you make yourself sadder? 
Replace my liver with your guts and sew my skin tightly 
so I can see me through the eyes you’re lending me now.

Last summer, in my sleep, my friends have killed a boy. 
his torso is frozen but has shrunk in its size 
his eyes were blue and watered as his porcelain skin is now.  
I found him in a cupboard and I held him in my warm hands 
and I thought that I liked him and wanted to know him better. 
You see, these kinds of thoughts are why I need to be untangled   
because, unlike the blue boy, they really should die young. 

It is this year, and my friends here have blue eyes. 
The water started flowing like the things I have to share

I’d unzip my chest open, from my face to my blue jeans 
and I would ask you to wear me like a jumpsuit. 
You’re taller than me, can you make yourself smaller? 
Replace my bones with your flesh and show my skin proudly
and see me through the eyes I’ve been given by birth. 

And please, say you won’t ever wear or hand me down

Originally published on Phi Magazine:
The Blue Issue, Autumn 2020

Art by Maya Twersky