Johnny said once, Eating with someone is really intimate
and it’s stuck with me. So I decline dates at restaurants
because he’s right and it’s too soon and, anyway,
maybe I’ll hate how these long-necked boys
who don’t know how to hold a fork eat. I’ve written
a lot of things for him, Johnny, more than he knows about.
I am 22 now so naturally I miss everyone.
I am 22 so I roll my eyes when someone says love.
Dad has the air conditioner all the way up but I’m still
waking up sweating. My brother has taken to degrading
women in that casual way that boys do—flick of the shoulder,
dark-eyed, he is my father in miniature, but I love him,
as sisters do, even if I don’t agree with his mouth.
I wanted this poem to go somewhere important
but I keep looking over my shoulder. I hate mornings.
I keep spilling my guts out to strangers on the internet,
and this is not the first time I waxed my legs for a boy.
We’re all fighting over who we’re going to take home
and I’m still pretending I can play the clarinet.
Everyone keeps complimenting my nail beds.
Remember mood rings? Mine stays black.
Hello everyone! Just reminding you that my book, What We Buried, is available for purchase on Amazon as well as the Words Dance website!
SUPPORT CAITLYN. BUY HER BOOK. FOLLOW HER. SHE’S FUCKING MAJESTIC.
I nod my head, say, Girls are so dirty
but I leave my used panties on the floor for days.
Have to fish out clumps of my hair from the shower drain,
wipe toothpaste from the faucet, clean period blood
from my sheets, leave my hair unwashed for a week,
sleep in my mascara and eyeliner. I pick at my acne
because my hands don’t know how to do anything
except destroy. The same boys stay hanging up
in my closet, snapshots of their mouths decorating
my nightstand the color of bruise. I practice saying
I love you into my palm and clench it tight
so it can’t escape. Forget it. No one asks if you’re okay.
No one wants a real answer. I make myself pretty
for boys I don’t even know how to talk to. I take them home.
Show them how to use the shower, the coffee pot.
Let them undress me in the dark. In the morning
I find wedding rings in their pockets.
This has been the lump in my throat for the past week.
It’s my favorite poem by my favorite poet, Dorianne Laux. Gently suggest that you read her work. She’s ace.
We write in darkness. We love
in alleys. We breathe into beige
paper bags. Anything to mollify
the confusion. Anything to simplify
thank you if you have stayed with me for this long. i am looking at this space and i am not sure about the furniture or the paint. the floors need to be scrubbed. the plants should probably be tossed. i am slowly coming back but it’s difficult readjusting when outside life has been so good to me.
my ask box is unapologetically open if you need me. xo
Friendzone ideology isn’t attacked because “nice guys” are comical or because fedoras make a funny meme, it’s because this logic is literally dangerous. This logic of “gentleman = deserving sex” breeds hatred of women, and brutal violence against women, and if a 22 year old self-proclaimed “supreme gentleman” murdering 6 in a campus shooting spree because of sexual rejection doesn’t drive that home, I don’t know what else would.