you know she is lying.

you reason with your belt
and it hangs like dark
clouds against the
skin that pulls with
the excuse of
gravity.

     scientists know
     nothing about real weight,
     about real pressure, force
     and electricity
          (a hospital full of cut-outs
           and windows; a sprinkling
           of girls who hate their bodies
           and men who would like
           to steal them; a cigarette
           near the lips like it has
           something to
           say.)
     i wish you would run out of
     definitions so i could run
     out of cells, out of blood,
     out of fear.

you know she is lying and
yet you still bring her
cheek up against
your lips. you
hold her
arms
like
a


     she smiles when you run
     out of words, when
     she shoves cotton like love
     into your ears,
     did you know
     that?


lover, she says, gently.
you smile,

charmed
by the myth
of closure.