She's waiting
with that lipstickless pout
her cat Léon
a "charmant" 2 bedroom apartment
and a once envied reputation
now deservedly sullied
and only getting worse.
Friends tell you she's got
rougher
sullener
dirtier.
She's waiting
at a sidewalk café
table wobbling on the cobblestones  
carafe, glasses of wine
balanced precariously  
while she argues about everything
and laughs
with old friends
new friends
and the stubborn ghosts
of those dead or gone.
You can still taste her mouth
that warmth
a hint remains in your wet
almost spongy inner cheek flesh
probe it with your tongue -
cigarettes
rosé
late afternoon sun.
Her face ever immaculate
yet always foundation-free
a lesbian's wettest dream
no make-up grazes staining
anybody's Yves Delorne pillowcases.
When you fucked
you could often hear
next door doing the same
will she still whimper
when you make love
and get up to pour herself a glass
immediately after finishing?
When you step out together
later that afternoon
will you feel as though you
have somehow
deliberately opened a door
into a dogeared postcard
or Truffaut film?
You know she's deceitful
runs to her own schedule
and clearly always had an expiry date
in mind for you two,
one she always kept
to herself -
"Those questions aren't
for asking, on verra..."
The cat has a tendency to yowl
at inappropriate moments
you wish she had a dog instead
or maybe just a goldfish
(there's enough dogshit
on the streets already).
Her apartment will still
smell of stale cigarette smoke
her perfume
and the geraniums in the window box
and she has asked that you stay
for the full two weeks
(sentimental, unable to resist
taking old lovers back in).
Will she beg you not to leave
burn your passport
in the stained enamel kitchen sink
while you take a shower?
Or will she quietly close the door
behind you as you go -
suitcase in hand
your eyes turned
pricking
away?



- - - -

howling loveless yelps into the corner of her eye while she's away,
hands tracing mad things,
fingernails scraping long walks home into oakmoss dripping from stones like picket fences.

the ghost of a neck-thin pulse runs a chill down to her toes

So, I wanna try something. I know this is a poetry website, but I have been writing this story. I stopped for many reasons such as being too busy, not inspired, not sure if it was good enough or not, etc.
So I wanna post just a part of it, just to see if anyone will like it. Just to see if it's worth it to continue it.
It's called The Sweet Pea, Honey Bee Kiss.

I tried not to regret the decisions I had made thus far, so the decision to pack my things and leave San Francisco was my own. I said not a word to anyone—not that anyone cared—and left on a rather depressing Wednesday morning. Leaving was not as hard as I thought it would be, rather, it was easier than well...me. There was an empty feeling in my stomach as I left, a sense of worry and depression lingering, but I refused to let the tears fall. So he didn’t turn out the way I wanted him to. That was fine, I suppose....
But who was I kidding? I thought he was the guy...the perfect guy. I didn’t know he could be so cruel, so detached and so...so much like every other jock there was at high school. Not all guys were bad, I knew that I wouldn’t succumb to blaming every breathing human being with a penis, I just knew now that Tristan Booker was an evil son-of-a-bitch and I was a complete idiot for thinking that he could ever like someone like me. Watching him turn his back away from me—away from the possibilities that could eventually be us—it crushed me. I had never felt so alone in a world filled with people—people who may have experienced the same thing I was going through or at least experienced heartache and heartbreak. I felt so emotionless. I couldn't find it in myself to cry, a cry that I so desperately needed, so desperately wanted. I could go my whole life blaming every guy that was a “Tristan”, I could go on with my life and succumb to the whispers and disappointment that pressed itself against me until one day it wouldn’t matter so much anymore. I could fight back; defend the dignity that was left behind and on life-support. But I did what any rational and distressed human being would do: I ran away. I hid in a tower much like how a Disney princess would, but then I remembered Cinderella was never called a whore.


I know it's long. Please bear with me and like/comment it honestly. Thank you so much!!

(-Asterisks indicate the necessity to pop your cheek with your thumb.
-Answer the two questions correctly and I will give you a hug.)

He fell asleep while traveling time
where a true name
becomes everything else.
So please give me a minute to explain myself
through the doorways
that I see champagne on a windowsill
walking across the room with blue
and fine china feet
saying again and again
drink me.
Until somehow
the words become a song
singing and swinging the bottle like a dinner bell for thirst.
A kind that we've settled to quench
with television
and somebody else's dream.
So don't pour my drink.
I'm trying to uncork it with my thumbs.

POP

It's flat
and I still have a tongue
so I will use it and I
I will use my thumbs to push back time
until hitler
becomes a baby.
Dr. King becomes a baby.
Until the left and the right and every dead genius in between
becomes
a baby.

Tiny feet trying not to crush the wet salad of the lawn
because it is green,
like my heart
that has learned
how to break fine china.
From experience,
let me tell you
it's a lot more tiresome than a blue dream
but he fell asleep on a boxcar crossing Germany
where mustard gas
drowns you in your own lungs
and he tries to breath between the joints in the track

the

click
...                             clack
click

as years
hurtle by.

Asking again and again,

"Who killed me?"
           &
"Who am I?",

until dinner was served without grace.
Until my head becomes stiff and bubble shaped
having been conditioned by
their
piles
&
piles
&      mounds

of
ob        cation.
fus

So we should tell all the baby hitlers,
that become children
that become us,
that a lie
is what you become
when abusing language to distort a reality.

And when you make a fist
you are handing lies out at random on a silver tongue.
But I still have one
and I still have thumbs
so sorry to burst your bubble but,

POP.

Child,
I don't mean to put

barbed wire

between us.  
I know it hurts
to have something so precious as the world
taken away.
But walls hurt worse
and through them only muffled sounds are ever heard
until your world is made of mute prisoners
that have forgotten what silver
really sounds like.

Blessed be
for I also have ears
so give me second place
and I will throw the medal against your walls.
Ringing out,
the universe doesn't look like an ebony tub,
with knobs we can't ever see,
full of infinite shining marbles to everybody.
Your mind
is a library of language,
so free will isn't a book written in english.
And tourists,
those know nothing infants trying to travel,
belong
where
           ever they
are
                             going.

Belonging like this medal bouncing trying to sing
off your wall
and
falls

into


your world.

Where again it will ring,

we've all been runner up

and somehow
we still get annoyed when another doesn't enter our library
instead of trying harder
next time.

So,
let me say grace.
Let me set l o n g tables
with the gruel that's been given
served on b  r                     n.
                         o
                           k  
                                        e          
china,
spooned
with sterling silver.

I put myself in terrible situations.

I wander,
Unknowingly,
Into a net of naiveté.

I let you pull me far beyond the trees
And let you listen to me talk.

And I asked questions that went unanswered
Because your mind was somewhere else.

See,
Earlier that week
I did something that lead to this very event.
A love potion...
Yeah,
Since when was that love?

I let you touch me
If only for a second.
But I guess I didn't push away hard enough.

I said no,
Over and over.
I turned my head,
But I guess you still didn't get it.

I should know better then to put myself
In self-esteem crippling situations.
But It happened anyway,
And I wonder if it's my fault.

You were my friend.
You've ruined me.
And I hate you for it.

Being gullible is my only regret.
Worrying about you so much.
Constantly thinking about our last encounter.
I thought we were so happy.
Especially because you gazed at me with such kindness.
But then ignoring replaced love.
My sunny days were drenched by saddening storms,
And my smiling slowly slipped away.
Tears stain my favorite dress.
The flowery one you always loved.
Darkness brings me tissues
As the last remaining sunlight
Starts to fade away.

compulsive
uncontrolled
consumption.
I'm just coasting.

detrimental
addictive
dependence.
For when life brings trouble.

physical
mental
toxicity.
Watch me float away.

changes
structural
chemistry.
I have no struggle.

chronic
abuses
brain.
Just relax.

Feed me your sadness
and I'll scoop it up in a spoon.
Like a fresh bowl of ice cream
I'll swallow it whole.
It'll fall down me
melting away my insides.
I'll let it dissolve everything I need
if it leaves you solidified in my sight.

They think we are
too young.

If you go up to your parents,
take a deep breath and then say
all in a rush, as to not lose your courage:
"Hey mom and Dad, I think I'm gay."

They'll throw away this
huge thing you just said
dismissing it to be just a phase,
but it's that "you're too young to know better"
thing that gets me every time.

State that you just want a boyfriend
to a little old lady
she'll tsk and shake her head and state
"thirteen's too young for boyfriends"

just because we're younger than you
does not mean we are stupid,
we know who we are,
we know who we love,
and age has nothing
to do with it.

you're not gonna bother to think
before you pour another drink
so go ahead and mix it up
until you feel like you're pretty enough
calm the thoughts that race through your mind
dancing around under lights that blind
looking for someone to hold you near
they'll whisper whatever you want to hear
determined the world will drive you insane
you can't stand to feel the pain
so here we go, you're gonna drink
bottles empty fast
trying to outrun the past
let go of the life that chains you down
baby you'll never leave this town
can't get one foot in front of the other
statistics, are you just another?
you have this plan every day
that you're not gonna let it slip away
that you'll fight whatever's worth fighting for
and you won't do this, drink anymore
and you feel like you're thinking clearer
until you look inside the mirror
feel the weights heavy like chains
and you know what will ease the pains
of life, of living
tired of giving
and it's so easy to fall
when you've lost it all
and the bottle knows your name