I cling to romance
like it’s the kryptonite I can’t live without.
I listen to Mariah Carey
and tell my diary about them.
I’m doing my high school makeup routine
and telling myself I like the pain.
I’m trying to hide the desperation for it
like a period stain on khaki shorts,
breasts budding too early under baggy sweatshirts,
sweat stains under a raised hand.
I cling to romance
like it’s my kryptonite-
no, my selenite,
I turn to it to feel clean
but I never am.