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 Feb 2013 Ashley R Prince
Quinn
i marinade my fingers,
banana pepper juice, hot wing sauce, sriracha,
i beg you to come close enough so that
i can burn every inch of your lukewarm skin

i'm not looking for revenge
i just want you to know what it feels like
to be set on fire and live to talk about it
when the sun blazes tomorrow

i drank enough whiskey for ten men last friday
and followed familiar footfalls,
i held myself up on barstools and good friends
and watched the door, waiting,
confusing look alikes through blurred vision

when you finally sauntered in
i saw it in slow motion,
i felt absolutely nothing
except hammered and free
I will hurt my boyfriend the most. But he started it and though he thought
we finished it together, like civil adults talking about how to better
our relationship. I finished it later --
alone in my room, crying and pleading for something better, different.

You gotta understand --
When it's good, it's so good,
but when it's bad,
I have to write about it.

And I will find a new boy who doesn't care about that,
                                                           ­       I respect the art, he'd say.

You gotta understand --
I will do this to you, too.
You are my next poem
and it will probably be ****** and make you cry.
12/30/12
Daydream if i ever publish a book of poetry and how much i'll hurt him.
I want to be loved
even when I
talk too loud
or curse in public.
I want to
have someone
to come home to
who will touch my cheek
and tell me
"I've missed you."
And I think love is
knowing how damaged
someone is
but sticking around
to make sure they're fixed,
and I need someone to
stick around for me.
two
of us
lying
on our stomachs
and to each other
silently
did he see
what I saw
did he smell
what I smell
how close were they
to us
how many were there
I have only one magazine left
he has two
if he
gets it first
I will grab his
what
would he think
if he knew
what I thought
I want to ask him
“are there any ***** there”
but my whisper
will be a lighthouse of sound
to Charlie
a beacon for him
to hone in on
and zap me
so I don’t whisper
and neither does he
I wondered
with all my squad members
dead around me
if he ****** his pants
like I did
not during the firefight
but two eternal hours later
two hours in this black grass
under this black sky
my thoughts of the noble dead
drowned by my ****
who knows
what others thought
in black pre-nothingness
God I want to whisper to him
to ask if he ****** on himself
to ask if he could see Charlie
to ask if he was thinking of home
to ask if knew I was alive
four feet from his elbow
smelling
my ****
the oil on his weapon
the dead buddies
all around us
and the sweat of the VC
I wanted to ask
in a whiffed whisper
but
could not
for questions have answers
but answers may have nothing
so I did not
and when the sun
slowly washed the night away
I still
couldn’t bring
myself to ask
if we…
if we
were still alive
I was staring at the pompous Sun,
gleaming over water.
Its legs stretched out, one by one,
the desperate sea its fodder.

As I watched, I seemed to sense
a jealous sibling feeling.
Just east of this, the Moon just shone,
loneliness endearing.

"I'm sorry Moon," this I say,
I'm only facing west."
But his face, as I confessed,
I swear lost glow and jest,

I assured him of his beauty,
his loyal and regal air.
not 'sick and pale' with grief, once said,
but utter debonair.

A question's there, in the air,
the one I rose above;
"Then why on earth, little girl,
is the Sun the one you love?"

"That's incorrect, and so unfair,
dear Moon, for heaven's sake.
It's only if I turn my head,
I feel a dreadful ache."

The Moon still shone,
a quivering pool,
giant and yet so sad,
said no more
and looked ashore,
wishing what he had.

No more I looked,
no more I frowned,
enjoying the bright pink thrill.
How can I say,
"Sorry Moon,
we all prefer some frill."
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