I beg myself to skip a meal so boys will kiss me harder, touch me longer.
But that's foolish and awful so I eat blueberries until my tongue is numb from sugar and my fingers are stained like lilacs.
I spy on my neighbors in their pretty things, sitting in hammocks and reading Nabokov.
The sun seems too scared of my searing white flesh to touch it for long but the longer I lay in the grass, the more the sun sneaks up on me. I like the lines the sun leaves on me, arrows pointing to all of my hidden skin.
When the weather has tricked us into an early summer, I write the grey days away pouring my own warmth into words.