Antifiles ...

No.

  I'm not real.

     I won't heel.

   I'm a million miles away

from tenable.

But I'm right next door

 and incredible;

I'm a party you're not invited

   to and excited

  to listen toward

because you're

  in the silent dark

    where everything wants

       anyone who

        spreads her tattooed

       shoulder blades

      across the eye-chafing

    crystal page.

 I want someone

and he's not you:

 he's glowing and

  untactile, too.

   He's lighter than me;

   I'm darker than he

  wants. And all

 the gall I front –

you think guards diamonds;

     he thinks hunts,

        trying to lock in

          and suck him through before

            he sees these boards

             splitting on my floor

             in sick and sadness –

        I have for I can't

     help but want

      only those who see in.

                     You don't see in,

                                            do you?