Confessions about a boy, 2.

Cocky, but I like a challenge.

You’re about as handsome as it gets, but your walls are up, so my curtains stay closed.

Your sister is sleeping and somehow you’ve gotten me into your room. The door shuts and we become animals, but it’s quick. Not what I’d expect from a 6’2 piano prodigy. Lacrosse, Soccer, and Football pro- Straight A student with the whitest damn teeth I’ve ever seen. God knows you’re much too perfect for me, but for now, my body doesn’t care.

After we’re done, I go to leave, but you start talking to me real human. You ask me to tell your sister to wear less makeup, and to keep an eye on her, too. Guilt sits like stones in my stomach, for I already chose you over her. I guess everyone wants a piece of me, and there’s just not much left.

You asked me to care for your sister and so I do, ignoring you, but when you’re drunk you’re not the same gentleman. You grab my backside and laugh when I say “stop”.

You even have the audacity to yell at me for smoking cigarettes, yet when I choose to walk away into the neighbor’s yard, you follow, pulling me down to the ground.

“Stop” I say. You cover my lips with your own. “No” I tell you, but you’ve undone most of my buttons now. I get up and push you off, and you’re pissy and I want to cry.

When I go inside, your sister thinks I’m hiding something because the jeans she lent me are muddy now and she couldn’t find you before.

I light another cigarette and swallow the guilt with the smoke.

Confessions about a boy, 1.

The memories attached to sound…

When that song plays I go back to the passenger seat of your car, when I was trying so hard to convince myself that I loved you. You bought me cigarettes and played music for me on your guitar and I thought I could repay you by jumping your bones.

They say I’m intense. Silly boys like you only buy into my bullshit because you’re all convinced you can fix me when you can’t.

But you were sweet, you felt bad that our first time wasn’t special. On the train ride home I closed my doors to you and opened the floodgates within, choosing to be alone with my emotions.

You used to drive for hours just to see me but I was used to getting beat down and your sweetness almost repulsed me by comparison to what I knew, so I told you not to come anymore.

Of course, when I did end it, you pounced. Stopped being a pussy and put your words into a song about how I left a bad taste in your mouth, stole your happiness and ended up being a bitch.

I’m not. You just weren’t the one, but I’m sorry I led you on.


Sweet Poison

There is no such thing as a sweet poison. That was a fact until I met her.

We humans, we gravitate towards sweet things because they tend to promise our safety. But her red lips and long curls did not promise anything, and if beauty ever does promise anything, remember, the promise of beauty is temporary.

But, her beauty! Her laugh! Her eyes, oh her eyes blazed like a monumental star, and they drilled venom into me until I could no longer see straight.

Yet, she was the sweetest sight I’d ever laid eyes on, and she was an infectious, cancerous, poison.

6:12 AM “Don’t go anywhere”

The hairs on your head gleam silver,
sticking up beneath the nape of your ear
where an inch of skin shows.

My eyelashes beat agains the pillow like a drum
a measure of time
a universal ticking we could not control
even before the clock, became
the clock.

Sometimes we are afraid of losing each other
but then I wake up at 6:12 AM
when the sky is still a dusky blue
and the trees sway all lazy
and the sun is not yet spilling yolky sweaty stains
through our clothing.

Then I turn and listen to the cars affect the vibrations of the bed
and your breaths go in and out all heavy and definite like your opinions.

Then I see your hand lay still against your chest like a promise of the heart
to remain good and honest to yourself.

When you are vulnerable, I trust you,
and in your sleep you tangle your toes with mine,
as if to say,

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m Sorry”

I say this so often that it hardly means anything anymore.

All of the men I’ve loved have begged me to never say those two words that I use like an excuse “I’m sorry.”. I don’t know what part of myself I feel the need to excuse, what part of me is sorry, why I’m so sensitive to how other people feel or think or breathe, maybe it’s a lack of understanding, a desire for acceptance, a fear of rejection, this is my downfall. I’m sorry.


Life of a Hostess

The noise in the room was white. Nobody made a sound except for the mice in the walls
and even they were too far removed to be considered noisy, our ears couldn’t hear their whispers, our eyes couldn’t see through the dense walls of the brick building in which we waited.

Time is slow
and maybe,
I will get in trouble for writing here
while I stand and wait
to greet people
I do not know
at work.

Why haven’t I been eating enough?
I don’t have time.

If I went to school in the mountains
I would have plenty of time
for everyone, including myself.

Too bad I don’t know what I want.