"I kicked myself in the head when I tried to do a front flip," he explained to me, rubbing his temple with one hand. I believe he stopped his game and ran over just to tell me that. Sometimes I wonder why they bother telling you about the idiotic things they do.

"Well, that was dumb."

"Yeah." He smiled. "But it was fun."

I mean, really.

Boys.

I don't know who told them that clasping someone round the legs and ramming your head into the backs of their knees and sitting on their chest and rolling over and over with them until you're breathless and muddy and your hair sticks on end is a game, or what keeps them intact when they've been kicked and shoved and crushed and sat upon a million times, or why they continue trying to impress when no one's watching.

I wonder how their energy never runs out and their minds never tire and they manage to put all their effort into the silliest, least important things, like front flips and back flips and kick flips and whatever other kinds of flips there are, and I think it's funny how they style their hair and stop smiling for photographs like they did when they were six years old, but on occasion forget they are men and skip around and scream like little girls and excuse their faults with, "Aw, come on, we're just kids!"

I find it curious how they run about the place and stand on their heads and pretend they're chickens or chimpanzees and put dirt down one another's collars and trip one another over as a means of amusement and repeat everything they hear twice as loudly

and collect sticks

and throw sticks

and break sticks

and fall over sticks

and hit each other with sticks

and hit sticks with other sticks

And don't care a tad that you're watching in bewilderment, but you do them a simple favour and they thank you as though it's the most difficult thing in the world, summoning all manly courage from their toes, which prove to be particularly intriguing at such times.

Can anyone tell me what makes them unashamed nuts one moment and awkward little gentlemen the next?

The sixth grader with long curls and arrogant eyes pranced around me with taunts of, "You're too slow!" as, worn out and close to dropping dead with the exhaustion of playing his game, I tried my best to catch him.

"You're too fast," I gasped.

"I'm not too fast," he said, then added in a self satisfied murmur, "Only the fastest kid in school. Anyway, this game is boring."

Next time I saw him he approached me shyly and asked, "Helena - are you going to play tag again today?"

I mean, really.

Boys.

i was cast out,

but not before i was casted out.

first came the cast,

plaster , itching , bad smell,

then, as i could dance no more,

i was casted out,

the director told me,

it's not them, it's me,

and my cast,

ridiculously trying to dance,

with the crutches.

with my position,

in the troup untenable,

i was cast out,

upon an island,

where i took up casting,

primarily bronze.

w

il

upon my citrons, eggs you lay,

your task is done, you fly away

but soon the offspring hatch and grow,

they eat in joy , the leaves they claw,

in quick succession, take their toll,

they burrow tunnels , like a mole,

incipid streaks of sickly white,

the wilted leaves are your delight.

and so my fruit trees will not bear,

no orange lime, no peach nor pear,

i will not feast, no fruit survive,

there is no hope while you’re alive.

because of balance you don’t care,

i sought out ways for to ensnare.

the gardening shop , i stand in line,

you’re menace, great, is naught but mine,

the kindly expert said that, lo,

there are ways to make you go.

a neurotoxin, sharp and strong

that caterpillers never know what’s wrong,

alas, this method has a fault,

it causes birds to fail to molt,

and they will sadly cease to sing

and so i shun this vile toxin.

but wait and hear, he cried of what,

more than one way to skin a cat.

and speaking so of cats and skin,

he told of treatments new , with grin.

it seems that labcoats far away,

have found a method for to slay,

the new emulsion seeps through root,

and rises up the trunk and shoot.

it stays in action for a while,

eliminate all insects, small and vile,

but fear not, friend, he told me thus,

the birds will live, they make no fuss,

the poison works and fades not ’fore,

it killed you off, and by the score.

in every part you dare to tread ,

the skin you have, you can not shed,

it sticks on you, this unshed skin,

it leaves your caterpillers all but thin.

and caught up so, they will not fly,

and undeveloped , they will die,

and i will shed no tear, nor cry,

for such a menace butterfly.

and best of all, we’ll eat and feast,

the birds on you, and me on peach!

and peace will reign , my problems solve,

until at least that you’ll evolve,

so dine this year, on my poor tree

and soon i shall of you be free.

The tear from your eye

was held on by your heart.

When love was lost,

your heart had an open spot.

Excuses motivate the growth of your tear.

Reality is what moved the emotion near.

The constant rejection from love is the start.

That causes the production of a tear

that was held on by your heart.

“We need to talk.”

It was that heart-racing age where I had to confront my eleven-year-old daughter about her genitals and tell her I’m not raising any grandkids. I knew she knew what was about to happen by the wide-eyed silence I was met with. My face was already flushed with shame. I looked at her comforter then looked back at her. She was staring at us in her mirror across the room.

“I know you don’t-- well, you haven’t started to, ya know, bleed.” I was looking at her carpet and lamenting the color. We should’ve picked baby blue over this hideous pink that aged terribly. Her scratching her knee brought me back to the conversation at hand.

“You will bleed someday,” I assured her. “But it’s fine. It’s supposed to happen.”

It was like I could hear her heartbeat in the ensuing awkward pause, but I couldn’t just leave on that note.

“Do you understand what I mean?”

She nodded. Liar. I couldn’t call her out on it though. Knowing her, she’d say a word like vagina and I’d know her innocence was lost forever and have to walk around in shame in my own house. It wasn’t happening.

“Do you have any questions so far?”

She was picking her nails, not looking at me. “Why will I bleed?”

I wondered why I always insist on saving the trees in the summer and refuse to turn on the A/C. It was really hot. I looked at my daughter to keep Nelly from singing the rest of the chorus for “Hot in Here”. I cleared my throat and looked back at my toes.

“Well, it means you’re a woman.”

“Why?”

Jesus, this kid and her inquiries. This was the same child who would question me relentlessly when she first learned to talk. I had gotten lucky that my second kid annoyed her into submission, but that inquisitiveness had kicked back in at the worst time imaginable.

“Well, because, God.” God. My moral trump card has come out at the best time.

“Oh.”

God helped me get my footing to get this spiraling conversation to a plateau where I could leave her to get the rest of her knowledge from a high school gym teacher that wears shorts that are three sizes too small. “Now because you’re a woman, you have to be careful about boys.” I paused. We were progressing as a people. Everyone was after that one thing now. “And some girls. They only want one thing.”

“What is it?” We made eye contact for the first time in this conversation.

Her big, innocent brown eyes were glazed in doubt and fear, and I was about to drop the rock of pain on her as my mother did me. For a split second, I started not to. I started to pull her into my arms, stroke her hair like I did when she had a nightmare, and tell her that this was all a prank, and nothing was bad. But, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t assuage her fears any more than I could answer her question without thinking of some pimple-faced jock or quiet cheerleader all over my baby. I sat there in stunned silence while she stared at me.

“Well... uh... you know...” Her eyes assured me that she didn’t know, so I couldn’t drop that rock of puzzling vagueness on her. I took a deep breath, focused on the troll doll on the shelf behind her, and spouted, “Your hormones are like a magnet. It’s like people begin to get easier to stare at and think about. You just want to... hug... them and be around them and talk to them all the time.”

“Like you and Daddy?” She sounded so innocent, and yet my mind went back to the sweaty fourth date we spent humping in a Taco Bell that led to the conception of a quickly aborted baby.

“Kinda, yeah. You like being around them, and you want to make mashed potatoes together.” That sounded like a euphemism for something. My ears were hot. “And it’s fine to feel that way. And other people will feel that way about you. It’s a really confusing time.”

My daughter paused and looked at the poster of JoJo Siwa on her wall. I could see the gears turning in her mind. She was piecing together all the fucked up things she’d learned throughout the years, and quickly coming to a conclusion. Finally, she turned to me with a pensive look on her face.

“Is it like when teachers say boys hit you because they like you?”

I was stunned for a second. I had heard that crock of shit too as a kid. Eddy Gravinsky was pulling my hair because he liked me. Daniel Smith kept pinching me because they liked me. It wasn’t until my sister got a bruise from her first boyfriend in college that I realized teaching kids that stuff in school is harmful.

“No,” I said quickly, shaking away my thoughts. “If someone likes you, they will never hurt you. Ever. And if everyone ever tries that shit, you hit them back.”

She made a face. I guess I had thwarted that learned notion. I mentally patted myself on the back. I’m a good mom. After about a minute though, the awkward silence had reached a fever pitch and I began to worry. What was she thinking of? Was some prepubescent punk smacking my kid around and teaching her that it’s love? Was she going to confide in me that one of her friends gets hit a lot? Was she going to call bullshit and argue with me about what this is really about? The suspense for what she would ask me was killing me. I had to get out of there.

“Well,” I said, trying not to sound too excited to escape, “do you understand now?”

My daughter smiled weakly and nodded.

“Good. I’ve got to go make us something to eat. You know you can always talk to me about these things, right?”

She nodded again. I kissed her head, said a little prayer that she stays innocent forever, and walked out of the room. I was greeted by my boyfriend, who was watching one of those countdowns of the best highlights ESPN has saved up to play during summer. He moved his leg a little so I could cozy up next to him and wrapped his arm around me as soon as I was in place.

“So did you talk to her,” he asked once it went to commercial.

“Yep.” I felt so unsure of that answer though it came out so confidently.

“What did you say?”

“Well, I told her that she’ll get a period and not to let boys hit her and that we’re always here if she needs to talk.”

It was so much when I was in her room talking to her, but now it seemed like so little. Part of me wanted to go back upstairs, kick her door down, and give her a whole Wikipedia page of information so I knew she’d be okay when she was out there with all those little sex demons, but I had no desire to go back into that warzone and see my baby growing up before my eyes. To reassure me and my boyfriend, I added, “I think it’s enough.”

My boyfriend nodded slowly. “That’s basically what I told Junior. We don’t have any grandkids yet, so I think we’re doing pretty good with this whole sex talk thing.”

He had a point, though my son wouldn’t even be on the list if we were betting on which of our kids were getting laid in the next decade. It was enough reassurance to make me smirk, though something was making me worry. I couldn’t tell him that. He always said I was too paranoid. She would be okay. We’d never let anything hurt her. I looked back at my boyfriend who smiled at me. He wasn’t worried, so I forced myself to calm down enough to reply.

“Yep. Two down, one more to go.”

Aliens. Every one of them.

With their green, lopsided hair, blue lips and too-tight pants. I met a man early on, who had chains hanging from the massive holes in his earlobes. Another woman had chains hanging from the door-knocker-looking ring in her nose. They attached to a black velvet choker. It sorta’ reminded me of the bridle of a horse, but I didn’t dare say anything.

This is not my time, after all. I’m the odd woman out here.

I’ll admit it’s a bit breathtaking, this future with its glass towers that scrape the sky and its automobiles that no longer look like automobiles--rather resemble some sort of spacecraft on wheels. When I first set foot out of the lab, they warned me to brace myself, that the world had changed a lot from when I was initially frozen in 1952. And that went without saying. But I had no idea it had changed this much.

Not that I’m complaining. The farther advanced the better. I was never content with my own time anyway. When the esteemed Dr. Ronald Haloran of Haloran Engineering began his highly-publicized experiments regarding cryogenic stasis—better known as suspended animation—I was among the first to volunteer as a lab rat. My mother had just passed, rendering me an orphan. As an only child I had no siblings to stick around for. And at thirty-five I was virtually an old maid, unwed and childless. The eyes of my era saw me as a pitiable creature, a good decade beyond her prime. It was my hope that with time would come progress; that I would find greater solace and acceptance in the arms of the future.

So I signed my life away, and put my fate in the hands of a man I barely knew. At thirty-five you’d think I’d have better sense than that. I was always scolded for my irrationality, and that’s probably why.

“Yo!” I look up to see a young man walking toward me. Another alien. An illuminated rectangle rests in his hands. Most people carry them nowadays. I’ve yet to find an opportunity to ask what they are, but they must be something special, because everyone I’ve met seems quite enamored by them. “Uh, you look kinna’ lost, bruh. Need any, like, directions or anything?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I smile warmly. “Do you have any idea where 412 Grenadine is?”

“Uhhh, that’s real specific-like. Can you be more broad, Ma’am?”

“East side? I used to live in an apartment there. The building itself was painted a sickly shade of pink.”

“Oh, yeah. That way,” the man pointed. “Though I think they...tore that place down when I was little. Can’t remember so good.”

“Yeah, I remember when it had that fire in ’49. They almost condemned it then. I’m amazed it held out as long as it did.”

“Uh,” the guy narrowed his bleary eyes. “How...old are you? You look, like, twenty-something.”

“I...” my voice caught. “I guess I don’t really know how to answer that. Biologically I suppose I’m still thirty-five.”

“Biologically? Yo, are you a vampire?”

“No. I’m an experiment.”

“Oh! So you’re more like Frankenstein’s monster. Cool. Cool.”

“I was cryogenically frozen. Do you know what that is?”

“Yeah. I think they did that on Cowboy Bebop.”

“They did that with me. In real life.”

“Woahhh. What year are you from?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Can I get a selfie with you? Lady, you’re like a living artifact!”

“Your grandmother was probably alive in nineteen-fifty-two. I wouldn’t exactly call us artifacts.”

“Yeah, but my gramma’s my gramma. You’re...kinda’ hot. Wait,” he paused, his forehead gathering as he attempted to think. It looked like he was quite unpracticed at that. “Dude, I just called someone my gramma’s age hot. Ewww...”

“What’s a selfie, by the way? I’ll gladly agree so long as it’s not vulgar.”

“Nah, man. I just hold my phone out like this, flip the camera to us, and take a pic.”

“Is that what the rectangular bar is? A phone?”

“Yeah. Duuude...you don’t know what a phone is? You got so much to learn. I think you’re gonna’ love it here.”

I laughed a bit.

“I already do.”

#fiction

I’m what you might call a Method Writer - write what you know and all that. So in order to comply with the prompt [You wake up hungover in a Mexican jail. No idea how you got there, and no memory of the last 48 hours.] I went down to Laredo, got some GHB from a guy I know - another Deadhead (thus well informed of the local narcotics scene) - and walked across the border into Nuevo Laredo.

Due to certain innate advantages I had never been in jail despite a few arrests in college for public drunkenness and disorderly contact and once for petty theft. But in none of those instances did I spend any time in a cell. I guessed my college antics would only land me a beating or, worse yet, an escort back to the border and possible time in a US Customs & Border Protection cell. My best bet to achieve this goal, I figured, was to bribe the police in Nuevo Laredo.

The only things I brought across the border were a small, spiral-bound notebook, a pen from the La Quinta I stayed at the night prior, five $100 bills - my bribing and drinking money - and, of course, the GHB, which came in a little brown glass bottle with a dropper cap.

My first stop was a bodega just over the bridge that spans the Rio Grande. The store essentially serves as a cheap liquor and tobacco depot for Americans. I bought a fifth of tequila and two packs of Marlboros (they still sell unfiltereds in Mexico).

Then, I wandered the streets until I found a police officer. [The following conversation has been translated from Spanish.]

“Can I give you this hundred dollar bill?” I asked.

“What for?” he asked.

“I want you to put me in jail.”

“You want to pay me to put you in jail?”

“Yes,” I stated, then clarified, “Not right now, but two days from now.”

“You are American…?”

“I am.” I still held the bill out in front of him and he finally took it.

“OK, cowboy,” he said pocketing the bill. “How will I find you in two days?”

“Well, if you can recommend a good bar or a brothel, you will find me there.”

“You fucking Americans. You wanna come across the border and get drunk and get laid and you even want me to be your babysitter. Fuck your mother.” The police officer began to walk away but I flashed the other bills and he halted.

“Listen, sir. I am a writer and I take my craft very seriously. I need to know what happens when I wake up hungover in a Mexican jail with no memory of the previous forty-eight hours. And I need your help to do this.”

The officer’s eyes never left the bills in my hand. “I can put you in jail, mister, but I can’t do anything about your memory.” I returned the bills to my pocket and withdrew the brown bottle.

“That’s what this is for,” I said. His gaze raised from the bottle to my eyes. He kept looking at me for a moment then he smiled and shook his head.

“You are crazy, mister.” He eyed the pocket where I’d placed the bills. “You know, it’s police policy to make sure there’s nothing in the pockets of someone going to jail.”

“I have nothing I will miss, except this,” I held up the spiral-bound notebook. “I will be greatly appreciative if you keep this safe for me.”

The officer nodded and took the notebook. “Yes, yes. I will be sure to keep this safe.” He slid the notebook into the breast pocket of his uniform. “I know just the place for you to go. And what luck, my cousin runs the place.” He pulled a cell phone from his belt.

“What luck...” I muttered.

The phone went to his ear. Seconds later he began talking. “Hey, Miguel. I’m sending a gringo your way and I want you to take good care of him...” He listened for a beat and his eyes met mine. “Yes, he’s thirsty and lonely.” He gave me a wink. “Yes, yes, that’s right. And I’ll be by in a couple of days to pick him up... Perfect. Later.” He put his phone away and then said, “You’re all set. Just follow this road here to Calle de Cabeza de Vaca and make a left, Miguel’s place will be on the right. He’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” I took the dropper out of the bottle and used it to squeeze several drops on my tongue then washed down the foul-tasting substance with some slightly less foul-tasting tequila. I offered each bottle to the officer. He took the tequila.

“Please, mister, I’m working.” He took a healthy pull from the bottle and passed it back to me. “See you in two days.” He laughed and walked away. I had another sip from the bottle before recapping it. Already the floating feeling tingled in my head. I turned in the direction the officer indicted and starting walking…

I woke up with the worst hangover of my life on a metal cot with nothing but a dirty sarape for a mattress. My head was some kind of spinning magnet, heavy and throwing my equilibrium off. The sun blazing through a small, elevated, barred window stung my eyes. When I sat up my stomach objected and I gagged and dry heaved before I could crawl over to the stainless steel toilet a few feet from the cot. There was nothing to throw up but some bile. When the retching stopped I became aware of a feeling that I should write something. Then I noticed a small spiral-bound notebook on the floor at the door of the jail cell. I crawled over to it and discovered it was one of my notebooks, the one that I’d brought to Laredo. I opened it and on the first page was a message in Spanish. It read:

Mister, here is your notebook and your pen. I kept up my end of the bargain

and put you in jail two days after we met. But we made no arrangements to

get you out and you have no money and no identification. I trust this was what

you intended. I am taking a week of vacation. Good luck to you. - Your friend

I leafed through the rest of the pages but they were blank, which was just as well as reading hurt. So did thinking. So did moving, breathing… I crawled back to the cot and rolled onto the sarape. I closed my eyes, hoping to return to sleep. But sleep didn’t come, just the nagging thought that I might take my art too seriously.

I tear the fleshy center off with my teeth as I read, feeling the blood start to fill the wound. I have always done this, biting my lips until they were bleeding, licking them until a white ash forms on their surface. There were three times I can count when I sucked the inside of my lip until a painful blood blister appeared and I had to put ice on it and try my damnedest to not bite it or pick at it. That was always what I heard as a kid. “Stop picking at it before it scars.” I was not a good listener back then.

If I had to pee now, I would have to see the various scars that climb my thighs like rungs on a ladder. Depression, anxiety, random unexplainable cuts, and accidents are ghosted into my skin, never to leave. Like the thigh hair that is barely long enough to pull but still so visible when I look at them. I like to cover them with my Codewords books until i can hide them with my sweatpants. Then I’d get my Curex soap from under the sink (the only non-edible thing from my trip to England) And glance for a brief second before turning the hot water on. In an instant, I’d pick up everything. I would see the scars on my face of pimples that refused to go away and were continually popped until the dark scab never lightened. Yellowish patches of actinic keratosis weaved into my dark roots. Bags under my eyes, the pimple that lives in my eyebrow, my gunked pores, my torn lips...

I would focus on the water and rub my hands vigorously with the moisturizing soap until the bubbles appear. I have always loved bubbles. They make me smile, and this time would be no different. I would let the water get scalding for a moment out of instinct then chicken out and turn the water off. Rubbing a hard brown towel on my hands, I’d inspect them. Two months ago, the soap was helping. My hands were softer than ever, and I had to share it with a hallway of other people. Yet, with my own bottle, I could still see the eczema patch starting on the back of my right wrist and a patch curving around my left thumb. It was still soft like the rest of my skin that I haven’t lotioned in years, yet I could see the crocodile skin and ceaseless itching coming.

When I return to my room, I’d have to roll the sleeves of my black New Orleans hoodie down, covering the randomly placed small clusters of keratosis pilaris and resume my work. The work that I’m currently doing. Rereading what I wrote as I nibble at the flesh around my long fingernails and adding commas and taking out unnecessary adjectives. My mind likes to wander into other things. Why the word “biblically” exists but “Torahly” and “Qu’ranically” don’t, whether CSI was actually the present, how in the world I thought Bert and Ernie were siblings and not partners, why there haven’t been blended families in mainstream cartoons, what actually happens when someone is speaking to the dead, why socks are always getting separated from their partners. The tornado in my head swirls though my fingers are now constantly moving, flowing from some deep part of my mind that I don’t think I’m fully aware of.

I think a part of me knew I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid. Of course, my head was clouded by Barbies and Playboy magazines and saving whales from the Japanese, but I stood out from the time I was born. Whether it was when I was a newborn figuring out how to get out from under the bright light or when I was constantly told I was such a pretty boy despite the beads in my hair and pink shorts or when I was constantly getting awards in elementary school when my classmates could barely read, I could tell I thought differently. I did trapezoids while everyone else was doing donuts. Over the years, my interests varied and changed, but my inquisitiveness and curiosity never did. It’s just been pulling me forward, like a horse that just would not die.

Lately, though, I’ve spent more time blindly chasing paper than stopping and looking at the squirrels that live in the trees along the less-traveled path. Drowning in a biology major that I like the idea of, instead of chasing the creative writing major that just tags along for the ride. Working myself to the bone at a dead-end janitor job was a good idea since I could see the animals’ behavior, even though most weren’t in their natural habitat. I could explore what I loved. Ask questions. Think when I wasn’t being asked where to find the koalas we don’t have or how to get to a building we’re standing ten feet from. But the need for green pushed me to get two more jobs, both in foodservice where I can get acquainted with the French fries. There was no time to think anymore. I had to go to work, then get in bed, then wake up for a class that I haven’t attended all week. I eked by and inched to the finish line and was forced to re-evaluate everything.

So I went to England for a while. As a kid, I'd loved England and always wanted to go, not knowing the terrible awfuls they do to food. Fat Europeans are a juxtaposition. I stayed, I traveled, I learned that I was living like T. S. Eliot and Percy Shelley and other writers that I skimmed through five minutes before every class. I learned of Mont Blanc, the darkness of 1915, the time the world was ending, and the other time the world was ending. Breathing the fresh air in a non-Ohio “fall”, I could remember who I was for a time. I could be myself again. But, it was at a price. I learned two negative things about me: I hate eating and I enjoy drinking. Spending hours walking into walls and talking to headphones (there was almost always a person in them), I remembered things in my life that I didn’t think were big at the time, learned that I am against institutionalized religion, learned that I can have a romantical connection to a like-minded male person, and realized that I may be the only person (aside from him; weird minds connect apparently) that enjoys racing through an airport and finds the ear-popping interesting, and found out just why Americans can't drink until we're twenty-one.

Now that I’m home, I realize now that I’m at another crossroads, counting and sorting pebbles because I’m terrified of what’s to come. Deep down, my inner Dora the Explorer says that I can conquer whatever comes my way (without singing... loudly) but outside, I know that I have more to deal with. My money is gone to European liquor stores and airlines, and I decided against going back to work cleaning the zoo bathrooms, fearing that I wouldn’t have enough time to see a single paycheck. I stalled for packing for school because I know how my semester has gone the last four times. I know that I may not graduate on time if I do what I want, and even if I do, I still need a place to stay and a (few) better paying job(s) to float in the Republican economy. I need theses, I need credits, I need money, I need to focus but I just want to turn into one of those weirdos that are surgically attached to the internet constantly talking about “treat yoself” and drinking water. I haven’t drunk enough water since I was in England, chugging from two-litres before bed. And every time I look up, that path has become a mouth with shark teeth waiting to devour me.

I just hope it knows that I’m going to taste dry.

I never wrote poetry as a kid,

And I never hugged anyone from the ages of eight through eighteen.

I lost my virginity before I learned how to hold hands,

And none of my high-school pals knew me.

I guess, one might propose that I was afraid of feeling weak,

But you make me feel pretty fucking weak anyway,

knees shaking and shit before I step outside to look for your car,

God-damned mouth wired shut when you ask me a question,

So, whatever:

I was going to make this pretty fucking generic to be honest, with all the hallmarks of good poetry.

But let’s steer clear of antiquated cliche’s,

Cause fuck Shakespeare, and fuck his sonnets, and fuck his plays,

I’m not interested in someone I can compare to a summers day, anyway.

Because you know I fucking hate summer,

And you’re cooler than that.

And fuck flowery language, and fuck writing like some nineteenth century aristocrat,

Because you know I don’t really speak like that,

And if this poem wasn’t honest I wouldn’t let you read a single fucking word of it.

I’m not going to do linguistic gymnastics just to express the fact that it’s almost uncomfortable how much you make me feel.

Or concoct some intricate rhyming structure to let you know spending time with you is so pleasant that I couldn’t dissociate while looking at your face if I tried, and I haven’t quite been present like that in a long time.

Trust me, I get the importance of a good ol’ literary device,

Usually, metaphors are what make honesty easy for me, but fuck ’em,

Cause with you honesty just comes naturally, and I don’t know why but you make me sweat vulnerability.

So, like, I guess you can hold my hand, or kiss me on the cheek while we walk down the sidewalk, or whatever.

I’ll be weak for you once in awhile,

Just don’t be sofr about it.