Powder blue, powder white,

her eyes

are crystal cracking

like cocaine—

That’s not what I said.


Surreptitious sun,

like the eight minutes of death

she rescues you from

            like heroin—

That’s not what I said.


Vibrant violet, bitter poppy-black,

abysmally sweet,

like her heart on a Norco drip

            like opium—

                                    That’s not what I said.

Glassy-green kerosene,

her voice drinks itself blue

like a stumbling harmonic

            like absinthe—

That’s not what I said.


I said her name is Ophelia

and her eyes are gray,

her voice is warm

and she is selfless and sweet,

a spindle—

and every night

I prick a finger

and poison myself.