The sun is a magical thing inside my toilet;
she sticks to the surface and doesn’t
come out, even when I coax her with weird promises
like “I’ll love you until I have used up all
of my glucose storage” or
“please do not stop touching me
at 3 am when I want to be touched
the most”.
We are the best of friends—she tells
me about all the wild grownup parties with
Denebola, Arcturis, Polaris,
all these names that are rabbit dust
in my brain, and
I tell her about all the boys who have
opened doors for me and all the
girls who laughed at my wispy
peach fuzzes when I was 14. The sun
wants me to go to Mt Everest and wish
for nothing but equivalence. She sings
tells me to hold myself close and to rock
back and forth until I feel my face
starting to melt. She knows I do not
trust men with brown eyes, or black,
or grey, or blue, or green, or bluegreen. I know
she only trusts herself. I want to pull
her out of the bathroom and into
my desk, my kitchen, my corridor,
my parks, my bus stops, my bookshops
but she says no no no.
I am your sun, not anyone else’s magical thing,
I belong inside this place only.
I am your permitted substance, your
only coping mechanism. I try not
to think too much about her.