I’m not a hot mess;
I’m cold and neat,
like a cool breeze over the bay,
fighting humidity,
or a spot in the shade
where the sun doesn’t reach,
or a kiss on the neck,
because the lips are too sweet;
I’m in the wrong city,
one where
the ground doesn’t hug me
as I drag my feet,
as I kick,
it screams,
like the sluts shaking ass

in the middle of the street
at half past three,
post brunch,
as if Eve
pulled an orange off the tree,
still tempting me
to sink my teeth,
into another hot mess
that’s no good for me.