I'm still afraid to talk to guys I find attractive. Especially this one guy in my creative writing class, who always wears a ski cap and has tatooes all over his arms. I don't think I'll ever talk to him. In fact, I purposefully picked a seat on the opposite side of the room as him so I never have to be put in the awkward position of trying to think of something to say to him. Suppose he needs a pencil or something. I'm not even sure I could dig it out without nervously fumbling and dropping shit all over the place.
I'm really not as cool as I'd like to be.
Whatever. He's probably a douche bag anyway. Most people are. But what if he isn't? What if he's dark, and complicated, and misunderstood, and all those amazingly sexy "bad boy" qualities I'm endlessly falling for? That almost definately means he'll be bad news for me. My hearts been broken about a hundred different ways by those "types." Maybe I should just try re- adjusting my standards. Perhaps, and this is just a hunch, I should try and find someone at least relatively stable. Or maybe... I should just stop thinking about it.
Maybe I should be celebate. Yea, that'll last about a week. Or maybe a few months. I didn't do anything all summer. But then again... there really wasn't very much opportunity at hand. Let's see... there was this incredibly scary dude who came into Walgreens about twice a day, bought candy bars, and constantly slipped me his phone number while asking for mine. He wore the same shirt every day, was bald, and about thirty- five. Not succuming to that didn't exactly take will power, but the really embarassing thing is, I actually did think about calling him a few times. I can't believe I just admitted that.
My nostalgia sneezed my sorrow.
My eyes lipsticked with nervousness.
A monkapiller in a banana shaped cockoon.
The monkafly will emerge, to smoke with me tomorrow.
I'll talk to the smoke released from his throat.
that disappears in ringlets- tastes like lead.
Turns into the wind, that carries my words away.
The wind doesn't hear me, my sentences float.
They turn into poetry, lost forever.
To the clever neverending eternity trap.
A comforting cage, furnished with my organs
I make a bed of my uterus- pull on my lamp lung lever.
The lights go out. I set my heart alarm clock.
That will thud in my ear, when it's time to awake.
Awake for what? A good observation.
A good look at my insides, a warm kidney frock.
To cover the holes all over me.
Now that my body's been detatched.
I'll spend my days fingering my newly made oraphesus.
And squeezing my blood out- to nourish my spine tree.
Underneath I'll unwrap packages.
My liver, spleen, muscles and this-
My heart to shove back inside-
Or will I leave it be? Is it easier to be empty?
I tried to decide for myself
But there goes my chest- opening itself wide again.
No respect for itself, none.