I’m sorry to the boy
with black spiky hair
to whom I didn’t give
my real name

If it’s any consolation
my insides were
begging me to
give you my real number

But if it’s any consolation
my lips couldn’t
form the right words
to invite you to my soul

I loved a boy
who overlooked me
and it really
messed me up

what’s that thing you
say I am to you?
your Petrarchan lover, and
you’re a self-proclaimed poet

well, guess what
I will never allow
myself a Romeo and
I am not your Juliet

I am not your anything
I belong to the moon and
to the stars, but predominantly
I belong to myself

I cannot be owned and
I do not take possession lightly
my soul came from a black hole
and my body from a supernova