You there, locked in a bedroom

Wax on windowsill and face-down photo frames

as I choke on drink and smoke and

on a thousand sharp and bitter perfumes,

skulking between department stores

searching for the one that smells like you.


Crying in graffitied stalls.

The dress you wore the last time we learned each other,

how your chin tasted in the morning.

How sick imagination made me, seeing you make familiar faces

and whispering new names in my mind.

How empathy was slowly replaced by bitterness.

How you could lie to me forever

so long as you put the dress back on and unlock the door.



Robin Sinclair is a gender-queer writer of mixed heritage and mixed emotions, currently living in New York City. Robin's work has been published in various magazines and journals, including Gatewood Journal, Shot Glass Journal, Black Heart Magazine, Red Bird Chapbooks, and Pidgeonholes. Find Robin at

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