OK Cupid

My hecatomb heart
beats a sacrificial rhythm
for boys who do not care
about a flick of hair
standing out of line.

I do not want to lend
my hair drier to you.

I want to roll around in creasy sheets
and tickle you
into hysteria.

I want you to hold my hair when I
vomit and I will reward you
with a flash of skin
on video chat.

I want to surrender myself on the
hood of your car, whispering secrets
under an indigo ceiling
secrets I have no idea
how to tell.

Please don’t
iron out
my insecurities
with a GHD

or spray them into
oblivion with
the help of L’Oreal.

Take me
swallow me
acknowledge me
and perhaps, if you dare
love me
and I will apologise
when I leave a bitter taste.

If your blue eyes drain
I will fill them
with laughter and clumsy
strumming on my dad’s guitar
and we will surprise each other
like a snowdrop in April.

My love,
my happy pill, my boy
with messy hair.