Follow me maybe?

Monday, April 13, 2015

"Excuse me for wanting to harvest my feelings instead of your babies"

Sheetless, my trenchcoat for a pillow, I slept better than I do with you - for your bed is not large enough to contain both our bodies,
your sarcasm,
and my dreams. You tell me that I worry too much 
and that I should try to live in the moment. You don’t understand that 
if I did, I would have grabbed my toothbrush and left because living in the moment means not giving a fuck that you fear being alone.

We’re a pair, as rare as unnaturally colored hair here. People wish for what we have and I want to say, “Be happy for us. Maybe not for me.” With you, I’m the kind of happy that comes from being tickled for two minutes straight;
smiling, but feeling the weariness of day-old worn clothing inside. 

You lean in for a kiss and I turn away. I want to 
dig my nails into this sickening familiarity and
rip it apart, as if it's as fragile as you were when 
you wrapped yourself in that blue blanket and told me that you
didn't have a single friend. What if I want to be significant without other?
What if I don't want to buy the bus, train, and plane tickets; what if I don't want
to wanderlust over words and the same two meals with you?

You say I look for problems where there are none. My mind, shaped by
years of being Pac-Man, acknowledges this. I feel more, question more,
and yes, I bring this upon myself. Don’t you try
to make me feel bad about it because you might see yourself in a poem
that people appreciate.

Friday, February 20, 2015

"The Feeling Nobody Wants To Acknowledge"

I contemplate kissing you and telling you what
nobody else has, but I'd have to identify
your body after we end. Like Lady Macbeth, except
everyone can see our past on my hands
in this digital world and unfortunately - fortunately for now? -
you look different.
I walk quickly, trying to communicate what a coincidence
that this man is going the same way as I am
"Oh! Have you met...?" No, of course you haven't.
I inquire into who your friends are, masking
a much ruder
I deny you in daylight, and want you when I
brush my teeth and wash sarcastic self-sufficiency
off my face. Then, it's too late and I still tell you no because
it's a cruelly cold world out there
and this carries two meanings.
I think of you like people
If I had sleeping problems I'd fall in love with you, so
I steal my friend's melatonin gummies to make sure I don't.

I know my own heart and I know that really, you'd get
the short end of the stick here.
Please forgive me. You sit and smile so earnestly that
I contemplate kissing you and telling you what
nobody else has. But kisses don't last forever, and you'd identify
me in the police lineup
for the crime
of being shallow.

"Everything We Get In Life Is A Gift"

He’s drunk, and I’m drunk on someone who looks like him but
I’m here to sober up. We’re in his room, the lights are off, and he lies
expectantly on his bed. My clothes are strewn,
interspersed with our pleasantries, on the floor. I am naked, except for

My Christmas present the previous year
came in a blue box, and is still on my neck. A bow pendant on a silver chain -
Never forget that everything we get in life is a gift,
she said. Thinking about her makes me feel
guilt and shame, so I try not to.
I realize this situation is also a gift. He wanted someone (anyone),
I wanted to backspace the burden of my feelings
so I found it in the first person I made
eye contact with tonight, during an unnaturally lengthy lull
between songs. As long as she never finds out,
I’m oddly grateful for now because this
is a chance to wash my hands of the other man, ironically with my hands.

I unclasp the necklace and tuck it away in my purse;
there is something decidedly impure about allowing
a stranger’s fingers on this present from my mother.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

"The Ruined Jacket"

Act One, Scene Three –
You’ve got your eye on me.
                  You’re more attractive when you’re silent.
                           Let’s talk like we don’t know where this is
                                                                        going, like we’re not selfish.

Time for you to say how you feel,
         I’ve got astonishment down to an art.
                                                      I have all the power here because
Society says you should talk to me first,
buy me lunch. Everything you do
                                                             and say will be used against you.

Your cheekbones, high and hollow,
         hide secrets. When you said I’m a relationships kind of guy
                  you really meant
                                             I’m a guy in a relationship.
         You say you fucked up, that we happened all of a sudden. You want sudden?
I’ll define that better for you -
         that poor, pale girl who never smiles,
                                             your honor
                                                           - gone. This is what you get for deviating.

I always
Thought I was in control and I hate surprises.
                                    Society says girls have runny yolk feelings
         But everyone knows that’s what I do best.
                           I crack eggs on the finest leather jackets. There’s one
in my hand right now. Do I do it?

                  I’m the director
and you’re a shitty actor.
                           I’m a perfectionist and
                                    I’m not interested in your interpretation of my script.
                                                                        It’s my play,
                                                                           and you’re fired.

Friday, January 30, 2015

"I am not writing about you again"

I am not writing about you again because
really, it was your loss. No excuses for you, all you had to do
was be someone else and how fucking easy was that?
Do you know how many times I faked a laugh so that you'd shut up and kiss me?

Everyone looks at you now, and they tell me I've won
but one who strives to win is gone, and by nature is a loser.
By trash-talking, we keep you alive with our words. Who cares if gossiping
puts me in hell because I was dead to you long ago, death by your clueless carefree.

I wrote as many words as I shed tears over you, usually along the themes of
Longing, but let's be real now. Life was unglamorous too often; misunderstood,
stifled, brooding, and alone in your bed. You could touch me, but never my mind.

I am not writing about you again because I am done feeling sorry for myself;
I spent nine months being in love with being in love at first sight
and I am not about to make it ten.