What a
serious case
of the cheese whistles,
I flirt with the
paint girl at lowes.
I made her night,
she made me question.
I suggest to my husband
that she might be a lesbian,
and he says
“because she’s crafty
and works at a hardware store?
And I’m the racist one?”
Tag Archives: writing
Uhaul
You with your
weaponized laughs
and mechanized grins,
me with
enough issues
to pack into suitcases
and fill a uhaul
to the brim,
together we do a
Frankenstein waltz.
Despite your training,
you listen less than talk,
judge more than watch
and I with my lack of experience
and skewed introspection,
I take your words
at two face value.
I can’t quite
declare this
relationship
nontoxic,
yet my actions
make me the bad guy
in this
dystopian
existential
drama.
Taco cat
It’s like a
forgotten palindrome,
the sweet resonance
of the words
you never say
while we drift apart
and I anxiously
twiddle my taco cat.
Velocity
Tastes like
the velocity
of lead
in my head.
I crave it,
my tongue aches
to be split
so I can scratch
that itch on the
inside of my skull.
Preposition
You were
something
like a jailor
according to
my fellow
inmates
but they
didn’t quite
seem to know
why my sentence
ended with a
preposition.
Just a conversation
You inflate
your
paper lungs
with a
hot air balloon
whoosh
and then
you ignite
with a
harsh grasp
gently
squeezing not pulling
the trigger
on the
sugar sweet venom
of your
frag grenade
unsolicited
opinions.
Misunderstood
You are a
muffin
in chains.
A placenta
in jeans.
A sack of
hot cheese.
You are a
misunderstood
non sequitur.
Learn to listen,
please.
Think of them.
Think of
all the things
you’re never
gonna know.
Let that percolate
in the silence
that you’ve formed
under your skin.
So many things
about so many people
in such a
damn big planet.
But you
specifically,
will continue to know
very little about me,
moving forward.
Snot and Tears.
My husband
didn’t change
the laundry over.
That’s all.
He’s asleep,
burrito’d into a fuzzy blanket, oblivious
to the world around him.
My world.
So I chose
To go downstairs.
To my grandmothers bed.
Which,
six months later,
still smells like her.
I wish I
couldn’t feel.
Couldn’t sit here,
drinking her in
while wondering
what exactly
about her
wrinkled, knowing smile
that I’m forgetting
at
this
very
moment.
I need a goddamn hug.
A whisper and a cuddle.
Someone to wipe my tears away
and tell me that she loved me,
she cares,
that this pain isn’t without reason
or without end.
But I hate to wake up valuable, contributing members of society.
Not for me.
Not for this.
All he had to do was change the laundry over.
Then maybe I wouldn’t be
percolating
in snot and tears.
Silence
There is a soft and subtle silence
in these lost and lonely moments.
Rather than we try to change it, perhaps we should let it change us.
Rexicorn 