when i think of everything i dropped and hid

my cunt is curdled milk, waves hello pre orgasm,
is afraid to commit – oh baby, you told me not to eat
until dinner but i’m aching, but baby, i don’t do you
wrong. i’m licked-wet fingertips dabbed on Pizza Hut
spice packet poured in dry palm, eyes burning, hunger
replaced with throat shouting, what the fuck, what the fuck,
why would you do this to me? everything is scorched eye-
blinding white, corneas fade to grey, fade out. roll. twist.

you stole the love letter i wasn’t ready to give; i chased
you, screeched until i cried one tear, drop a gun to the neck
of this thing you won’t let me call a relationship. gal buds
is the best i get, and i’m stupid? young? enough to laugh
along, to think its funny that you think i’m only good
enough to fuck until summer ends. i’m laughing now
and yelling now and saying, i’m going to eat it, am pressing
paper to the bottoms of my top teeth until you hold your hands
up, say fine, fine, and walk away. but you never really walk
away because i won’t let you. you dare me i won’t do a push
up so i lay on the floor on my stomach and i push my palms
into the floor like they pushed into the bed as we fucked but
i never came and never pushed up – i’m too weak to push,
i’m too afraid of you to come. what if i look ugly when i come
apart? i wanted you to love me so i straightened my mixed girl

hair. i wanted you to love me so i wore makeup, again, wore
cheetah print bras under loose tank tops. i wanted to be loose,
i wanted to be everything that made you ache, i wanted to be girl
i’ll fuck you so good. i wanted to swallow you but i’d never had
so much salt poured down my throat. you made me burn. i made
me burn. never you. only my organs, starved. only my cunt, dripping
anxiety over your fingertips and thighs. starved. the nun you really
wanted to fuck. the nun who loved you. you feared my virginity
would make me love you. baby, it was you. baby, it was me, too,

or it was just you. it’s not, now. your name curdles
nothing, now. my fist pushes beyond leftover
hymen like fingers scraping for the last yeasty
beer in the back of the vegetable bin. green things
don’t solve the ache. i come for myself. my fingers
wave hello, we’ve been waiting, where have you been?

No Comments Yet

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

bluestockings magazine
WP-Backgrounds Lite by InoPlugs Web Design and Juwelier Schönmann 1010 Wien