that hair falls out and regrows
so there will be parts of me that you have never known and I like
the idea of lines of coke,
of your body wrapped around me,
your hands on my throat
on the floor of a party somewhere west of here where the wind is colder.
I like the idea of growing older,
and the cracked grins, and the taste of gin and your
lips are like a space god missed.
And you are godless, and I am limp.
And I like the idea of us, of giving into lust, or of growing
up. I guess you’ll never know me
I like the thought that things keep going
even when I am in bed, breathing softly under the weight of my own head
and you are in a field somewhere west of here
coloring your hair. And I like the idea that there is somewhere
you have never existed. That there are people who don’t know you,
who can’t miss you,
who can meet people with your name and feel unchanged
by the experience. I wish my bed was big enough for the two of us
but I like the idea of a space all my own. And I don’t like being alone
but it is getting easier.
When you kiss her, I hope you don’t think of me.
I like the idea of you feeling a little less empty.
The first time you kissed me,
you asked: “Is this what love’s supposed to taste like?”
I giggled and bit “yes” into your bottom lip,
even though I had no idea.
I was only fifteen,
trying to pass for twenty,
with a baby face that you couldn’t possibly
have been fooled by.
when I told you my real age,
you went quiet and stood in the corner for long enough
that I felt like I had grown into someone
you could undress without guilt.
“We can’t do this,” you said, your hands in my hair.
In reply, I left a purple bruise on your neck
in the shape of “I know.”
At school, my friends ask me if the best part about
loving you is knowing someone who can buy me alcohol.
I tell them that all of your kisses taste like wine,
so I have no need for it.
When I relay this story to you in the parking lot,
you laugh and let me take a gulp of you,
big enough that I’m drunk for the night.
No, the best part about loving you
is that you showed me parts of my body
that I didn’t even know existed.
The best part about loving you is that
you took me home to meet your mother,
even though she thought I was
an illegitimate child that you’d hid from her.
The best part about loving you is that
I never want to stop,
even though each time I feel my raw cheeks
after kissing your beard-covered mouth
on the playground,
I know I should.
Your 30th birthday fell on the same day as my 15th.
When I went shopping for your gift,
I stood in the men’s section
for hours after my mother dropped me off,
staring at the things you were supposed to want.
I saw no place for my baby fat amongst
pressed slacks and shirts.
The sales lady asked me if I was lost,
checked her calendar and said: father’s day is in three months, hun.
I wanted to scream that age was just a number,
that I was old enough to know better
but could not imagine knowing a love any better than you.
I wondered on which of my birthdays I would be told
I was now capable of understanding love.
If wondered if you would be able to find anything
close to it in the “young adult’s” section.
"You always looked good in red," I said,
as I straightened the tie I’d decided on.
But I wanted you to look good in me,
to not appear like a monster holding me down in bed.
I did not want my friends to think our love was “dirty”
or for teachers to study me because they had “heard the rumors.”
When I convinced myself that the amount I felt for you
was too much to be disputed,
I got sloppy and
forgot to delete your texts.
“I love you?”
“My tongue still tastes you?!”
“I can’t feel without you beside me??!”,
my mom screamed as I lay crying.
The last time I saw you,
you were tense in your seat,
separated from me our lawyers and
my mother’s protective arm.
“Confess your guilt”, your lawyer urged.
“No one will give you any sympathy.”
But on the stand you looked at me and said:
she was half my age,
but I have no regrets in making her half of me.
Edited/extended this at the urge of a close, wonderful friend. (via soggypoetry)
Don’t walk out that door
I can’t stand my own company
I don’t know what to do
With my hands
And my skin feels
Like I accidentally took the wrong one
When I was born
I need your mind
because you want to
live forever and I’m
a girl who immortalizes
the past in words.
I’ll get sick of
writing about love,
but until then,
I need a subject
for a new poem.
and I am a semicolon
begging you to go on.
Sometimes Sleeping Beauty
likes to sleep alone
Rapunzel wears her hair down
for no one but herself;
her neck is sore
from trying to pull you up
and Cinderella still sweeps the floor
when the prince isn’t looking
because she isn’t sure he’d love her
with dust in her hair.