8:42 PM or Pedestals

I’m starting to think that my expertise is putting people
On pedestals
I think I do it because I am under the impression
That it will be easier to see you up there
But what I fail to realize
Is that it’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes
I can’t make out the details so I just fill them in as I see fit
Add a few qualities here ascribe some traits there
And presto!
I have a brand new idol to worship

Ever since the day that I realized
That I have a type
Not only in theory
But to my utter dismay
Also in practice
That can be summed up in 10 very little but very descriptive words
It has been all down hill and fill in the blank from there

Your dark hair and dark eyes are matched perfectly
By your darker still sense of humor
Making you not only rather amusing, but also very skilled at
Spinning awkward social situations into cloaks of protective humor
i.e. my 15 year old cousins baby shower
Or the shotgun wedding immediately after

Your politically minded nature makes you very knowledgeable
About domestic as well as world affairs
Causing you to not only be a good source of information
But also a good source for making my panties wet
(Jesus, she is such a slut)

You’re terribly witty and clever which, no doubt,
Gives you impeccable taste in music
Yet you somehow remain un-pretentious about it
And open minded- willing to try bands that other people recommend
Which I was beginning to think was a combination
Of qualities incompatible with one another

Your are certainly charming
Which makes you a great conversationalist
And a delightful party guest
Easily and eloquently commenting on everything
From Camus to Kerouac to Craigslist
With a mere flick of the tongue
(Which also, by the way is very, very skilled)



And because you know all of this
You’re cocky
Which means
I cannot resist you
You beautiful bastard

1.56 AM or Sing you out of my soul

Your skin proves once again to be a familiar home
My tongue feels better in your mouth
My lungs breathe easier when it is your breath they breathe
And god DAMN, am I tired of writing love poetry (about you).

But my mind is eased when you are on it
So I’ll take another hit of your memory, baby.
That’s all you seem good for these days anyhow.

I wanna fuck.
No, I don’t wanna fuck
I wanna fuck like us

Like wet between our legs,
Between the sheets
Bent over your dresser
In the chair you stole
And wherever else our skin touches

It’s all zuses fault anyway.
If back on that fateful day millions of years ago
He had just left all us lovers alone
We wouldn’t spend so much damned time
Trying to shove ourselves back together again.
Trying to graph each onto the other, just like it was intended.

Some days I try to sing you out of my soul.
Like if I can just get the arrangement right
Or if I can hit the high-note like some kind of red-headed Miriah Carrey wanna-be
I could banish you from what seems to have become your permanent residence
But every time,
Just when I am about to shatter glass
My voice cracks
Plummeting you back down into the depths of me

Because I know that only the way to truly remove
Someone so scarred onto that organ that causes poets the world over to blow their load
Is to let the second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand
The turning pages of a calendar
Wash over and over the culprit holding on to your heart like a tick
Until they are finally eroded away
And all that remains is a trace of who you both used to be
Lest ye forget what they were brought into your life to teach ya in the first place.

4:32 PM or I'm Sorry

In a state of apple pie grace
Where pleases are pretty and come covered in sprinkles with a cherry on top
For some reason sorry was broken
No matter how strongly you felt it,
‘I’m sorry’ was never good enough.
Cause, see, sorry is never good enough when the guilt is misplaced.
When you removed it from yourself and etched it on to my chest
In big Scarlet letters with your eyes
A little girl doesn’t understand that you are the sorry one.
All she understands is “something is wrong with me.”
She learns to be shameful.
This blessed creature that wears existence like sunbeams that radiate through her skin
Like how we wore bathing suits when we were 5- all day long and often all night too, just in case the chance to go swimming arises unexpectedly-
Like unabashed joy pulsing through her with each ba-bom of her tiny little heart which is ironically about the size of her tiny little clenched fist
Like she was of something divine and her presence here was reason enough to wear her existence like the crown of jewels it was.
This creature dims a little.
She begins to question her crown.
She questions her divine nature.

She decides that she doesn’t deserve the divine.
She decides she is unworthy of her provenance. So she denies it.
And once that concession is made, she has got a whole new slew of dragons to slay in her kingdom.

See now she has to earn her worth.
And once her value is outsourced, it will never be enough.

Thinking it’s normal to reassign responsibility
She learns how to etch things on to other people’s skin
Things that they don’t deserve.
Things like “How you feel about me dictates how I feel about me”
Like “all of your opinions are right”
Like “my value is determined by you”

She grows up-
Her body finally matures to match the adult mind she has had for years
Jumping from relationship to relationship
With a perverted idea of how love acts
Recreating the only circumstances she knows how to operate in
She can’t figure out why she is always sad.
But here is where the story gets good.


__________________________________________________

Which is to say that is where I can't get past. I have no idea how to end this guy. Actually, after the outsourcing, I am not really comfortable with it. I can't figure it out. I have grown out of my past experiences and in light of that I have a particular direction I want to take it. But I have been holding on to this for a few weeks continually trying to get the end right to no avail. Which makes me think that I am missing a piece. There must be some experience or some...thing some piece I am missing before I can finish telling this story. So until then, this is all you get.

5:38 PM or The Fuck Poem

I am not a prude.
Rest assured, I fuck.
**Gasp**
Thats right, I fuck.
And not only do I fuck,
But I also have sex, sleep with and make love.

So if I am not fucking, having sex, sleeping with or making love to you
It isn’t because I’m waiting
I’m not
It isn’t because I don’t know you that well
I do
And it certainly isn’t because I’m a tease.
If I’m not sleeping with you,
it is because I don’t want to.

Do not delude yourself into thinking that I am some kind of goddess
That can’t find 20 minutes to come down off her pedestal and fuck you

And while we’re on the subject
The same goes for my time.
You’re right
I can’t be that busy
Although I am one fuckin busy girl
If I liked you, I would make time for you
As much as women needed to hear the sage advice
I think you need to hear it to.

So please, stop to consider the possibility
That I’m just not that into you

Now stop whining
Stop telling me I’m not paying enough attention to you
And for your self respect’s sake,
Stop accepting less than everything you want.

If I am not laying out the sexual buffet of your dreams followed by molten lava chocolate cake
Covered in sprinkles of romance and emotional attachment that you desire so deeply
Move on!
This kitchen, is fresh out of sprinkles
And I am not the only fish in the sea!

Why am I the one who has to tell you this?

You are a catch, for sure
But you were not what I cast my lure for
And thus, I release you back into the deep
to be caught by someone who can appreciate what they have
better than I

You see I, sir, am not hunting
I am gathering.
I am gathering stories and scars
Bar tabs too big and nights too small
I am gathering training-wheel mistakes mixed with tight-rope-walk successes
And personalities perfectly poised on the verge of self-destruction just for the fun of it.

I am collecting pictures and tokens to fill the scrap book of my skin
So that when all the other gals in the nursing home
Complain about how their white picket fence was always dirty
And how their good for nothing 2.5 never visit anymore
I can lift my moo-moo to my knees and show them the starting point
Of a map that leads to a road less traveled

So I’m not going to say I’m sorry
Cause I’m not
Here there is nothing to be sorry for
And I’m not going to pretend that it breaks my heart
Because I respect you more than that
Instead I will kiss you scales
Remove the hook from your mouth
And release you

1:00 AM or 10:09 AM or The Cage Poem

I sleep with my hand- a cage over my heart
Like the cage in that game Mousetrap we played as kids
Made out of plastic and weak
but somehow strong enough to keep the mouse inside
unable to move
I win you lose

And if you were to ask me why
I would chalk it up to chance
That’s where my hand just happened to land
Or claim that it is to keep my cat from stepping on my piercing while I sleep
She has been known to do such things

But really it’s because I saw you again last night
Another one of our infamous hear-to-hearts
And just as the plastic cage keeps the mouse
My blood and bones in the form of five fleshy iron-wanna-be bars keep my heart from climbing out of my chest
And making its gelatinous way into your broken-glass hands.

They look fine from a distance, sure
So how do I know they are made of broken glass?
Because experience is the best teacher, my friend.
But luckily you didn’t hold it for long
Thinking you were in the middle of a game of hot-potato
You-as if your hand was on fire- quickly and gracelessly
Discarded that with which you were so carelessly trusted
Leaving my precious, mischief-loving heart on your bedroom floor
Where it collected dust
And the footprints of your other lovers for months

It was my fault for not calling her back home sooner.
I think she was confused and thought she was home
Being so used to existing in a stat of catatonic chaos and all
But even if she had realized she was in the line of stiletto fire
She probably still wouldn’t have listened
See, my heart is one persistent mother fucker
And as long is there is a silver moon sliver on a foggy nights shred of hope
She will not let go

I wonder if I could train her
As to who used kid gloves and who collected hearts in the form of one more notch
Teach her to lock herself away in a stony tower
That would rival Rapunzel's
To protect her from all of the slings and arrows
Of unworthy suitors
So that she could remained unscathed and clean
And spend her days waiting

But we all know that love is better when it's dirty
Covered in mud, with scraped knees and smiling
Love should be child-like in its discovery and awe and act accordingly
Love should abound, not be trained or restrained
Love should make its own choices, and hopefully
Next time hers will be better.