The only thing touching me right now
are my black jeans, a blanket, this bra. Even my friends
don’t want to go out: J is in bed, phone glowing hot
in his hands; Alisha’s in Florida with a sad song
and a linen napkin in her lap. Maybe this cigarette
is my Valentine, all mint-smoke smell in my hair;
or the card my grandmother picked out carefully
three days ago for me. I have to cram myself
into this body every day and it’s getting crowded.
I wander lonely through Target, buy small things
like nail polish, a scarf, breath mints. People are always
so surprised that my poems contain so much
sadness, that I can crawl right into the belly of it
and sleep there. I can’t talk to you like this. No one
is answering their phones and the woman who tells me
that the person I am trying to reach is not available
is my best friend and I hope she’s happy. I hope
someone loves her. I hope she loves herself.
are my black jeans, a blanket, this bra. Even my friends
don’t want to go out: J is in bed, phone glowing hot
in his hands; Alisha’s in Florida with a sad song
and a linen napkin in her lap. Maybe this cigarette
is my Valentine, all mint-smoke smell in my hair;
or the card my grandmother picked out carefully
three days ago for me. I have to cram myself
into this body every day and it’s getting crowded.
I wander lonely through Target, buy small things
like nail polish, a scarf, breath mints. People are always
so surprised that my poems contain so much
sadness, that I can crawl right into the belly of it
and sleep there. I can’t talk to you like this. No one
is answering their phones and the woman who tells me
that the person I am trying to reach is not available
is my best friend and I hope she’s happy. I hope
someone loves her. I hope she loves herself.
― Kristina Haynes, “Valentine’s Day Blues” (via fleurishes)
good news: everything is temporary
bad news: everything is temporary
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.
― Kim Addonizio, “For Desire” (via oofpoetry)