we brought tequila to a saint patrick's day party
like it wasn't already obvious that we're students
in a room full of musicians,
but we wanted something more than our coffee and cigarette mouths.
your hands were bumping into mine all night
and you pulled away so quickly each time,
claiming you thought i had a cigarette between my fingers
and you didn't want to get burned.
why are our hips like magnets,
your arm now around my shoulders like an old friend
like a new love, a comfortable drunken
sort-of-high kind of night.
your glasses start to lower on your nose as the night continues,
and i see your hazel eyes
and god dammit
it's always
sometimes i have to do all i can to only stay alive
and if that means getting out of bed only to take my
one-and-a-half pills, fine. and forget the birth control i'm not getting laid anyways
except tomorrow when i'm manic and i sleep with my engaged friend.
i'll tell myself that i didn't fall for him in that moment even though he held me just like you did.
and maybe he smelled like you too, but i'll pretend he smelled like the ocean
because i don't remember what the ocean smells like and i don't want to remember him.
and every time that car commercial comes on or when i forgot to delete that song off my playlist,
i'll leave or cry or both a
she carries one brown, paper bag in her purse
tucked in that small flush-against-the-side pocket
holding her tampons and panty-liners.
it's folded up really tight and it has never been unwrapped
and it probably never will be.
she thinks about the bag when she walks through the parking garage after school,
or when she forgets to bring her own liquor to a fraternity party.
she thinks about it when that guy she just met touches her shoulder
and whispers alcohol-laden bitter nothings in her ear.
her fingers feel for it when she is nervous in public bathrooms
or is wondering the quickest way out of this gas station.
it seems as if it beats a
and it's when the day starts that my cycle begins --
with aching bones and throwing-my-head-back laughing.
the sex jokes, the dirty gestures, the winks and the index-finger curling.
the fun grabs a hold of my wrist and pulls it along until i get rug burn.
like rouge streaks -- my knees are skinned and my empty stares begin.
not like the movies. by ocean-whispers, literature
Literature
not like the movies.
i wake up next to your dead-still frame
and only slight motions of your stomach
let me know that you're still breathing.
the outside is not quiet like i envisioned.
there is construction with loud drills and
catcalls.
i am looking at your face and your
hair is ruffled about the edges of your forehead
and you really need a haircut.
my lips are about to touch yours when you
open your eyes slightly and see that i'm squinting at you.
you close them quickly and pretend to still be asleep.
i sit up and feel for any bumps or imperfections on my face
while i notice the height chart on the wall next to your window
and then i feel gross because
there were times where i fell in love with you
more in one second than in any other around it.
like the time when i was sitting on your porch swing
and you -- reminiscing about being eight years old --
climbed the picket fence lining your yard
stood on its corner, arms stretched, clad in invisible cape and mask.
and while i felt like calling you a cliche,
i remembered that it was only me who had lost all wonder
and you who had grabbed it all up.
and i hate that fucking bench you sit on
smoking your pink and pretty cigarettes.
you think you can read yeats and copy
his poems with different cliches. everything
has to have a god damned meaning behind
it but in reality, sometimes life means nothing.
you're just afraid of wasting your what-you-think
precious time but all that weed you smoke
isn't you writing a god damned stanza.
you're not a reincarnate of kerouac just because
you smoke cigarettes and own a vintage typewriter.
change the fucking tape for once and get a grip --
you're just another college freshman cliche who
can't get laid without writing a poem about the bitch.
you said you'd take me to see the spring flowers
but i took him instead
and when you didn't kiss me on that bench and i had to do it for you,
i realized that i would have to take him there and fuck him.
so when i have trouble writing my next poem,
i'll call him instead of you because
you're a carbon copy of Poe
and he actually knows what a fucking stanza is.
we brought tequila to a saint patrick's day party
like it wasn't already obvious that we're students
in a room full of musicians,
but we wanted something more than our coffee and cigarette mouths.
your hands were bumping into mine all night
and you pulled away so quickly each time,
claiming you thought i had a cigarette between my fingers
and you didn't want to get burned.
why are our hips like magnets,
your arm now around my shoulders like an old friend
like a new love, a comfortable drunken
sort-of-high kind of night.
your glasses start to lower on your nose as the night continues,
and i see your hazel eyes
and god dammit
it's always
sometimes i have to do all i can to only stay alive
and if that means getting out of bed only to take my
one-and-a-half pills, fine. and forget the birth control i'm not getting laid anyways
except tomorrow when i'm manic and i sleep with my engaged friend.
i'll tell myself that i didn't fall for him in that moment even though he held me just like you did.
and maybe he smelled like you too, but i'll pretend he smelled like the ocean
because i don't remember what the ocean smells like and i don't want to remember him.
and every time that car commercial comes on or when i forgot to delete that song off my playlist,
i'll leave or cry or both a
she carries one brown, paper bag in her purse
tucked in that small flush-against-the-side pocket
holding her tampons and panty-liners.
it's folded up really tight and it has never been unwrapped
and it probably never will be.
she thinks about the bag when she walks through the parking garage after school,
or when she forgets to bring her own liquor to a fraternity party.
she thinks about it when that guy she just met touches her shoulder
and whispers alcohol-laden bitter nothings in her ear.
her fingers feel for it when she is nervous in public bathrooms
or is wondering the quickest way out of this gas station.
it seems as if it beats a
and it's when the day starts that my cycle begins --
with aching bones and throwing-my-head-back laughing.
the sex jokes, the dirty gestures, the winks and the index-finger curling.
the fun grabs a hold of my wrist and pulls it along until i get rug burn.
like rouge streaks -- my knees are skinned and my empty stares begin.
not like the movies. by ocean-whispers, literature
Literature
not like the movies.
i wake up next to your dead-still frame
and only slight motions of your stomach
let me know that you're still breathing.
the outside is not quiet like i envisioned.
there is construction with loud drills and
catcalls.
i am looking at your face and your
hair is ruffled about the edges of your forehead
and you really need a haircut.
my lips are about to touch yours when you
open your eyes slightly and see that i'm squinting at you.
you close them quickly and pretend to still be asleep.
i sit up and feel for any bumps or imperfections on my face
while i notice the height chart on the wall next to your window
and then i feel gross because
there were times where i fell in love with you
more in one second than in any other around it.
like the time when i was sitting on your porch swing
and you -- reminiscing about being eight years old --
climbed the picket fence lining your yard
stood on its corner, arms stretched, clad in invisible cape and mask.
and while i felt like calling you a cliche,
i remembered that it was only me who had lost all wonder
and you who had grabbed it all up.
and i hate that fucking bench you sit on
smoking your pink and pretty cigarettes.
you think you can read yeats and copy
his poems with different cliches. everything
has to have a god damned meaning behind
it but in reality, sometimes life means nothing.
you're just afraid of wasting your what-you-think
precious time but all that weed you smoke
isn't you writing a god damned stanza.
you're not a reincarnate of kerouac just because
you smoke cigarettes and own a vintage typewriter.
change the fucking tape for once and get a grip --
you're just another college freshman cliche who
can't get laid without writing a poem about the bitch.
you said you'd take me to see the spring flowers
but i took him instead
and when you didn't kiss me on that bench and i had to do it for you,
i realized that i would have to take him there and fuck him.
so when i have trouble writing my next poem,
i'll call him instead of you because
you're a carbon copy of Poe
and he actually knows what a fucking stanza is.
her hair, tangled & wind-blown.
eyes, lost.
her eyebrows --
slightly raised
as if she saw everyone
but no one.
she lowers her head and
begins to drown.
inside out she turns
and her mind fills the space,
her breath starts to slow.
her eyes, to widen
and she looks up
and sees nothing.