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Brittany Wynn Apr 2020
Exultant from a few Tuesday night
Adderall highs, strung out on sleepless
Spotify, we retreat to your car, lighting a few
bowls and I find myself in a mirror—
lacquered eyes and speaker feedback
lead me along the wall, fingers
catching the telephone jack.
You lower me slowly, cool,
cotton sheets against my shoulders
and while you kiss my ribs,
I remember two nights ago—you fell

asleep before I even unhooked my bra
in a half-assed, half-dreaded, C+ cup effort.
But I look at my black socks, chew
my nails away, and drag the jagged lines
along your spine, the textbook
I don’t want to return.

We’ve sat on loveseats for hours,
days, crying over mediocrity,
the –isms, drunken mistakes meant to haunt
us long past under-grad. In class we
discuss darkness, the psyche, and morality,
but I just want to draw my uneven
hearts in the margins.
Feeling nostalgic, and it's been too long so I thought I'd put this one back up.
Brittany Wynn Jan 2018
When I fall for a guy
it's like
doing ******.

Barely eating
because he turns
my stomach inside
when he kisses me
with tongue (and he knows it).

Restless sleeping
because I hear
my skin begging
him to touch me (and he knows it).

I trace lustful
track marks,
reveling in the ravaged
but ignoring

the dark hollows
under my eyes
and ribs poking out
from crop tops--
they don't bother me

so naturally

my friends give
a full length Ted Talk
on "Being Independent:
Don't Get Attached and
Give Him Everything He Wants 101"

Family doesn't even ask
but tell me he's not
handing out cryptic warnings
like condoms from the RA
that isn't worth listening to.

So naturally

I ruin their interventions
with sleepover
sexcapades that not
even a wine-drunk
binge can fool
me into thinking is real.

His pretty words whispered
into my ear
are needles
into my arm--facilitating
illusions that are
But isn't it the truth, though.
Brittany Wynn Nov 2017
For My Cousin Jason*

I hide behind the shed in my backyard hoping to smoke
long, lingering grief away, imagining how you float
among back-lit clouds because I refuse
to remember how your body must have flung
into our grandparents' mint-rimmed pool that you claimed
was a sanctuary, I couldn't have believed the coroner's
conclusion, judging the crack in your skull--

            a suicide.

5:37 AM. Your mom found you face down, surrounded
by strange black waters--

           your blood

in barely-there morning sun, making us wonder
why you chose a late night swim to clear your hazy
brain where ship-wrecked joy drifted to the unperturbed
floor of a soul too weak to surface from hideous ocean-sized distortions we never would have found within lined-spine
daydream books of childhood. Even then I knew


were your thing: and I wish I had sent a makeshift summer
reading list or voiced some pep talks when I had writer's block
at two in the morning because then I'd know if you wanted
to find your grave in a shallow end.
Brittany Wynn Nov 2017
Every night I hope
I find my message in a bottle,
but really it's just to sext
this hex away. Monday
nights are lonely on
that hook-up culture,
Juvenile Tinder App--
Swiper no swiping, but
I'm still that little girl
cowering from the screen
where someone will definitely take
my soul valuables
But if these be masochistic flames
to my emotional Hell--
Rage on, commence the *******
parade, their drumbeat matching
my bleeding-heart
attitude transposed into cryptic Finsta
posts and 3am Snapchat stories.

You made me feel like Lana,
fervid and fated in
a ride or die façade which
crumbled to Taylor's fake femme
fatale "narrative." Ripping
off the wings of  our swan song
doesn't make you Frank Sinatra, even
though you crooned a tune of Love and Marriage
in between my sheets; those were odes
to blanket you (not me).
Brittany Wynn Jul 2016
My last memory of…you
I drove all the way through town, chain-smoking through half
my pack as I burned deep inside from stoking the ashed embers of a fire
I had attempted to smother before it burned us both out after it had licked

Its way up my whole body—

But I reveled in how it ate me from the
inside while I let the tobacco
consume the healthy volume of my lungs leaving me breathless which I prayed
would either make you notice the red in my cheeks
or make you worry about me
in contrast from the systematic silence that had deafened our
friendship and scarred
any possibility of our future, but
when I got there you told me to drop the habit so it didn’t linger in my hair.
You also pointed out where the butts had rubbed away my lipstick and with a look that made
me want to smack
you across the face, but
also crush your lips
with mine because it
deepened your gaze
and sharpened your jaw
instead I said I’d gladly put the rest on you. Your friends, the Miss Priss Brigade,
saw chipped nail polish and slightly dull skin and last summer’s leftovers and I knew

we’d never end up
unfiltered and imperfect in the barely industrialized studio flirtingly touching
and kissing and dreaming and enchanting ourselves with the what-ifs of a future
we saw through wine glasses worn

by teenagers who didn’t know love from illusion.
It was cathartic to write this in 20 minutes?
Brittany Wynn Mar 2016
Ten minutes ago I cried
wracking, heaving, red-faced,
closed eyes, no-sound sobs behind
my hamper in the corner, craving him

even though he sleeps uncomfortably
4,000 miles away 6 hours
into my future, hostel walls akin to
secrets within--

twenty one pilots blaring
in the space behind my face
and above my throat, unsettling
the anonymity of my lifestyle, indebted,
growing thinner than my frame as
we both fall to the circumstance of youth

chanting the war cry in pub crawls
and hub drawls where his best friend
sits across from the smug smoke in
between cherry lips,
our kissing knees
begging me
to repeat

in an unadulerated, first-time
draft ripped open and stretched
for my next big "portfolio"
that's worth more burning by my own
hand as I run blistering (drunk) through
a hallway which will never be mine like

the bills-rent-direct-deposit rinse repeat
cycle spinning my eyes into glazed over
acceptance of my lot.

But he still sleeps out of reach
while I'm too paralyzed behind this
******* hamper.
this made a lot of sense in my head, I swear.
Brittany Wynn Jan 2016
I sit on our recliner,
Luna bar wrapper on the floor.
My robe is cinched
too tight, a reminder--
your fingers should meet
around my waist, but my ****
and *** should spill out of your palms
because defined curves and wiles
are the definition of a divine
woman worthy of insta-fame,
tumblr posts, and right

I'll twist and turn and pose
in front of any mirror, desperate
for a flat-planed stomach and fuller
cleavage, the whole time
wondering if you look at me bent
over the bathroom counter, fixing my eyeliner,
and think that I'm a dime disguised
in a size 0 dress.

If my sides could shrink as fast
as my self-esteem, I'd never crunch
my abs into idealistic numbers again.
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