The Fifteen-Year-Old Considers His Closet

How badly I wanted to be prettied

in the back seat of some taxied

sedan with my black lipstick twisted

out—maybe, my smile Vaselined

like my khalti always said,

on your teeth, always use the name brand—

these images dreamed in my mirrored

gaze of a high school men’s restroom, relieved

when I realized the crushed soda cans turned

urinal cakes would outlive all the friends who snorted

our shared Ritalin collection and,

certainly, outlive me, and thank God.

My love will outlive me.