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b for short Jul 2016
I’d imagine my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****— car accidents, nights of overindulgence at the bar, trespassing to “not-so-skinny” skinny dip in gorges tucked away deeply between mountains. I’d imagine she’s shaken her head at me more times than she’s offered me a high five. I’d imagine I make her use less-than-flowery four letter language when I speak, loudly, without thinking first. I’d imagine she cringes when I forget to reapply sunscreen and fall asleep on the beach for three hours. I’d imagine she often questions why she got stuck with a soul that just can’t seem to settle and fit into a set groove.

I’d imagine she’s annoyed by the fact that I’m not a wholly religious person. I ask too many questions to let well enough alone. I’d imagine that she nearly has a heart attack when she taps into my thoughts when we pass a hoard of sweaty, young and rugged road construction workers on the highway. I’d imagine she’s over the moon that she’s not my mother, and that she definitely throws out some extra Hail Marys when I wake up thirty minutes late for work and somehow think I still have time to stop and get an iced chai latte.

I’d imagine that my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****, but nothing quite so challenging as the loss of a soul I loved more than any other on this planet. I’d imagine she’d rather see me with a no-good, devilish smirk on my lips than these unpredictable streams of tears down my cheeks. I’d imagine she’d hush the thousands of questions circulating inside my head that just can’t be answered. I’d also imagine that she’d agree—the inside of my brain sounds a lot like some frat boy got really drunk, made some awful beats, and proclaimed himself the master of Fruity Loops. I’d imagine she, too, would like it to cease immediately, because it’s never, ever going to sound like something that makes sense.

I’d imagine that she’s mapped out all of the cracks this has left in my heart, navigated them, and is ready and waiting with the super glue and duct tape to make me feel whole again. I’d imagine that my pain is as much her charge as my happiness, and that she tries to deflect and channel it into better things whenever she’s able.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has now gained a great friend who can share in her grief of protecting me. Someone who also has shaken his head at me countless times for a lot of the same aforementioned antics, someone who was a little too tall to offer me high-fives but offered me the low ones with a side of a hug instead. Someone who always told me to calm down before I spoke—who told me to stop overthinking things until they didn’t make sense. Someone who always reminded me to reapply my sunscreen—who always ultimately tried to deflect my pain too.

I’d imagine my guardian angels expect me to continue to keep them on their toes. I'd imagine I don’t plan to disappoint either of them in the slightest.

*Rest easy. I'll be seeing you.
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2016
b for short Mar 2014
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
b for short Apr 2018
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again.
But don't pity me, please.
I'm just "lonely;"
It's the teacher I can always look up to.
It thickens the skin and deepens the thoughts.
It reminds me why I enjoy the sound
of a stranger's laugh,
and presses me to admit that
I miss being touched.
Lonely looks a lot like a harvested cotton field,
and if you inhale the air as you drive by,
you'd know exactly how to describe
the smell of neglect.
Lonely proclaims that something empty
is just as beautiful, because you can see through it;
it can only tell the truth.
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again;
to learn that its lonely goodnight
is the most beautiful painting
the whole world gets to witness.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2018
b for short Aug 2013
Everyone wants a definition.
I don’t care for those things.
I reserve them for dictionaries,
and associate them with uptight individuals who live life undecorated.

We’re conditioned to crave that black and white—
everything simply categorized;

“A place for everything and everything in its place.”

I hate that.
I really, really do.
But I like you.

& listen, I can do without the definitions—
But opinions—those I want.
The individualized answers expressed in a non-textbook-fashion.

As in, “What are your thoughts on Sunday mornings?”
You know, when we hold each other for as long as we like,
and drift in and out of sleep well into the late afternoon.

An opinion.
As in, “I can’t stand the thought of being a part of someone’s collection.”
And I know that’s not a question.
But I can bet on this: You have something to say about that.

An opinion.
As in, “I would totally lay claim to you if I could.”
But you’re not into being claimed—
And I’m not into chasing things that don’t want to be caught.
I was never was a very effective huntress—
Unless, of course, it’s for typos or a triple word score.

I’m not reaching in the dark.
I’m not holding my breath.
If you want my opinion—

Fewer things feel worse than this.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
b for short Feb 2014
Minutes left at work,
I realize my mind has been in
the gutter all day.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2014
b for short Apr 2016
This one is for the old souls—
for the minds sustained on stories
and the lips that speak only
in combinations of words dusted
with jaw-tingling purpose.
For those who can find salvation
in a good bass line
and the disciples of that
aww sookie sookie now
for the air guitarists
who will only ever make it big
going solo at a stoplight—
for the pairs of eyes
that can’t help but see things  
the way love is felt:
inexplicably with hungry fascination.
This one is for the old souls—
may the world always be
your zealous oyster,
producing enough pearls to fill
an Olympic-sized swimming pool,
and may you always be
brave enough to jump in
wearing only a smile.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2016
b for short Apr 2016
I want that easy, slow-dancing-in-the-kitchen kind of love—
something so free and so simply performed,
sunsets envy how naturally it settles in for the night.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2016
b for short Apr 2016
I’m the smell on your skin
after you’ve felt the sun
for hours—
the ache in your belly
when you’ve laughed yourself
into a fit of warm tears—
the give of the lid
on a stubborn pickle jar—
the freedom felt
at one-hundred miles per hour.
I am all
of the subtle reminders
that life is beyond measure,
and that 'time' was just
a theory conjured up
by someone
who couldn’t stand
his own happiness.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2016
b for short Mar 2016
Sun on my bare neck.
The crunch of grass under toes.
Cheeks ache for freckles.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2016
b for short Dec 2016
I watch the music maker
and wonder if he holds his women
the same assured way he holds his guitar.
I wonder if his fingers memorize their curves
the same way they memorize measures.
I wonder what he does with his sheet music
when it has nothing left for him to learn.
If I were his, I’d insist he hand it to me.
Each stack I’d fold into delicate flying creatures
and send them off into the sky.
With their pointed wings,
they’d strum clouds and pluck stars—
making messages in melodies
to remind the world
why she chooses to keep spinning.
© Bitsy Sanders, December 2016
b for short Apr 2014
Oh conference calls,
I've named you something better:
“Haiku-Writing Hour.”
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2014
b for short Feb 2014
Dear NASA,

I read somewhere that voluptuous women
do well in zero-gravity environments.
This makes complete sense to me
(and the “ladies.”)
Trust me, I've seen the pictures—
and we want that.

Hear me out.

Gravity's a drag.
Bras are too ****** expensive.
I feel like I’d manage to look twenty-five
for another twenty-five years
if I could somehow
avoid the sandbaggage
that I'm doomed to inherit.

It's a comfortable thought
to picture the once distressed,
top-heavy lady population
floating in ecstasy,
brassiere-less and beaming—
soaking in a  freedom so sweet
that a word just couldn't do it justice.

I think I speak for the whole
of my curvy comrades  
when I say that we'd appreciate
your cooperation in getting the lead out
as you breach the final frontier.

Because let me level with you:
there are plenty of things in this world
that can bring a girl down—
our most enjoyable assets
should not be two of them.

Please join us in the fight to stay ****.

With the warmest gratitude,

© Bitsy Sanders, February 2014
b for short Feb 2016
My mind resembles something like
a rabid VCR—baring its teeth,
foaming, unapologetic, at the mouth,
rewinding and replaying and repeating
all of the small cuts of two people
I swear I used to know and love.
Rerunning a patchwork reel of the scenes
I can stand to remember—
(which is all of them when I’m feeling
particularly masochistic).
Rhythmic static travels from
top to bottom of my mind’s eye—
a familiar flaw, cracking and popping
as the picture struggles to come clear.
I try to stop it—all of it.
Rip plug from outlet—
throw this snarling archaic beast
against some unsuspecting wall.
But it’s made in the good ol’ US of A
and runs on something
a bit more complicated than
any energy they can send me a bill for.
So I'm stuck
in this cyclical hell,
where there is no fresh air,
and the only oxygen I can get
has to be ****** through
a barely functioning dollar store crazy straw.
And, really, my only anger is directed at Dante
for not including this part
in his little ditty about the Inferno.
I swear I’d take
trying and failing
to escape a river of boiling blood
over whatever it is that causes me
to create a dramatic VCR metaphor
any day.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
b for short Jul 2014
I sat down today and thought of a face—
with kind curves and welcoming eyes,
with a smile that could illuminate a space,
and warm the chilled voids betwixt thighs.

So I snatched up a pen and scribbled like mad,
an articulate letter on said visage so divine—
pages upon pages of marvelous musings—
hunger dripping off of each line.

Then my hands finished working, my fingers at rest,
observing my mess of inked letters and blots.
One simple message derived from it all:

**“You’re in my inappropriate thoughts.”
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2014
b for short Mar 2016
Your name I say over and over.
I love how its kind shape feels
as it rolls over my tongue.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2016
b for short Apr 2016
I have powers
beyond my wildest dreams.
Ambition that makes
a cup runneth over.
A voice that shakes
mountains to their peaks.
Words that demand
to be fashioned on paper.
Who knew
that my greatest power
was a still tongue
behind hushed lips,
and the willingness
to simply
                                      walk away?
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2016
b for short Jul 2016
It was a hope, but mostly me,
rust red and tired—
resembling the person who you’d
take the time to tell goodbye.

It was.

Now such a hope is taking shape
as that pretty sight you see
in your rearview mirror—
the shape of the clouds
outside of your window seat—
either way, she
dons designer shades,
a wickedly telling curve
on her lips,
and her *******—
a beacon,
held proudly to the sky.
© July, 2016
b for short Aug 2013
Consider poetry
& all of its complicated forms.
Then strip it
of all rules and restrictions.

Now, consider the subject matter.

Free verse
would not be free enough
for the words I would choose
to describe
what I would like to do to you.

Maybe these types of instincts
weren't meant to be cheapened
with velvety phrasing
& sumptuous language.

You see,
I have this hypothesis
that poetry
would be just as effective
translated into raw action.

(They really should have
shipped me off
to the nunnery
when they had the chance.)

But they sent me to college instead—
where I learned
how to properly test
my hypotheses.

**Hot ****, do I love research.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
b for short May 2016
At some point, you think you have the power to force time to move slowly, and at times, choke it by the neck until it stands still altogether. That is what I wish for you right now—total asphyxiation of time so that you can take in and enjoy these last strings of moments that harbor some semblance of normalcy. You deserve that, but I don’t have the power to give you what you deserve, so I’ll give you what I can—words from a place I don’t let people reach.

I don’t know if you know this, but I was only twelve when they told me my mother had cancer. It was an idea much bigger than anything my imagination could wrap itself around. There was a possibility that she would die from some stupid thing that I couldn’t even see with my eyes. The fact that there was even a small chance that our days together were numbered sent me plummeting into this eerie wonderland of anger and confusion. I didn’t recognize anything around me anymore as something on which I could depend, and the fear that I felt meticulously disguised itself as bitterness. All of that negativity stemmed only from a small possibility, not a promise, that she was leaving me. When you told me that your father only had as little as six months to live, I knew that was a promise—not a possibility. I imagined you falling down that same terrifying rabbit hole without a single shred of certainty that your feet will hit the ground. I didn’t even attempt to save you, because, I know, it’s an inevitable, unplanned trip that has to be made.

What makes your situation delicate is that you know what’s going to happen. It’s not a question with multiple choice answers. You can see it coming—standing on some railroad tracks out in the middle of a quiet nowhere—a small speck of light in the distance that doesn’t seem to be growing any larger at first. The day will come when that light swells into the size of a freight train, but you won’t know it’s there until it’s right in front of you. You won’t know until it’s too late and you’re unable to dodge it.

I can tell you that watching that train coming right for you twists my heart with an iron fist. It’s a helplessness for me that I can’t  crawl out of.  Your pain is personal, unique, and something that is unfathomable to anyone else. All I can do is sit back and selfishly hope that I’ll still be able to make you smile after the train has passed.

Our roots don’t run too deep, but they are strong. In the past six years that I’ve known you, I’d like to think an unspoken understanding that we mean quite a bit to one another has developed between us. Your family has treated me like one of their very own, and I will never forget the love and kindness that your mom and dad have always selflessly bestowed upon some weird little writing major that you befriended through work.  It’s clear where you’ve gotten that keen sense of compassion and empathetic nature—and I love them for being such creditable role models. As a result of all these treasured qualities, I want to wreck anything that causes you pain, heartache, or unhappiness.

But I cannot wreck this. I cannot get close enough to even touch this. So it goes.

Despite my childish wishing, I cannot give you what you deserve, but I can leave you with this: Just know that with the promise of losing your father comes the promise of these two arms and a surplus of hugs—a promise of an undying effort to make sure you’re supported in the days to come in whatever you do, wherever you go—a promise that I’ll be right where you left me, always.
© Bitsy Sanders, May 2016

for Cody
b for short Feb 2016
“It,” not so easily defined,
catches and clouds in my throat.
Previously shot down
in a blistering passion, and riddled
with disappointment,
vague answers to important questions,
and the kind of wasted possibility
you’ve seen in a used syringe
abandoned by the park fence.
Although it may seem
wounded and unkempt,
I can feel its remaining life
writhing, wondering, and desolate.
So I let it grow, with no hope of air,
and with my eyes closed, it thrives—
sprouting fresh white plumage,
collecting its strength,
pecking, p-peck, pecking
at the back of my tongue
and ******* up my oxygen.
It’s the taste of blood
that makes me come to
before the riotous flutter of feathers
works its way
to the edge of my lips.
I watch as it lifts off, up, out, and away—
wings spread in a striking spectrum
of well-played deception.
It flies, now, fearlessly—
commandeering its own air,
and I breathe easily
knowing that it won’t die
with me.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
b for short Jan 2016
This I resolute
Salads can't create ****.
More bounce to the ounce.
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2016
b for short Mar 2014
I don't dig digits,
but all folks love 'em some pi(e).
Food math is the best.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
b for short Jul 2015
***** girl problems.
Any text on a t-shirt?
Highlighter for ****.
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2015
b for short Apr 2015
I have lost my place
between your warmth and your chill.
I think I'll stay lost.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2015
b for short Apr 2015
Truth: damaged people
tend to do damage themselves.
Keep your eyes open.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2015
b for short Apr 2015
He can’t dull the ache;
the sting which follows his phrase
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2015
b for short Apr 2015
Dear, hold your heart close.
Avoid bulls in china shops;
their thrill is short-lived.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2015
b for short Jun 2015
This headache ***** and
I'm too tired to hate you
the way that I should.
b for short Mar 2014
If you often have
great *** and are good with words,
pen that **** for all.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
b for short Aug 2016
A truth derived
out of the last armful of days:
“the heart just don’t quit.”
Despite the whole of it,
I stop dreaming each morning
to the beat of my own—
a soft, rhythmic reminder
that I’m still here;
still here
with breath to waste
if I wish.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2016
b for short Mar 2015
With his tongue coated in sugar
and a smile seeping with sin,
I ignored what Mama told me
and let that devil in.
©Bitsy Sanders, March 2015
b for short Jul 2014
I read a tidbit somewhere
that the average American will spend
a combined six months of their life
waiting at red lights.

After I processed this,
I consciously took a breath,
thanked my debatably lucky stars
that I turned out
nowhere near average,

*and gunned it.
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2014
b for short Jun 2016
Music is thick,
syrupy sweet and
heavily cloaks all
of the hazy bits of
undecided sunrise and
smeared headlights
that I blink into
oncoming clarity.
Last night looming—
an ominous rain cloud
born to wash out
all of today’s quick wit and
coveted common sense.
Last night, so curious,
while I slowed time by
refusing my dreams;
when I quieted my mind
and didn’t have to work
quite so hard
at keeping myself warm.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2016
b for short Aug 2015
I caught lightning in your bottle,
and I swallowed it whole.
So torrid and treacherously lit,
I became the kind of something
you taught yourself to run from.
Skin tight and white hot,
I radiate light from all angles;
buzzing with fluorescence.
With my fingertips brightening
the curves of your lips,
I trace that familiar fine line
between your fear and fascination.

In a single crack across the sky,
I will set your darkness ablaze
and leave you with
a deafening boom of clarity.
Jolted and stunned, you take in
an infinite illumination,
devouring every inch of
the unknown color and wonder
once shadowed by your thick,
murky doubt.

Blink, and it disappears
as quickly as it came to be.
What you see, you can’t forget.
As the spots dance, staccato
in front of your eyes,
you run, just as you taught yourself,
fast and far, away from the light;
disenchanted once again,
as you recall the fact that
lightning never strikes
the same place twice.
the same place twice.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2015
b for short Mar 2014
I don't twerk, but see,
I'm pretty sure my soul does
when you say my name.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
b for short Nov 2016
America, when will you step outside of yourself?
When will you realize that one-size does not fit all?
I’d say we’ve outgrown our government,
but freedom of speech is not freedom of consequence.
America, the air is too thin up in your tall towers.
Is it time to dismantle?
I’d be happy living in rubble if everyone felt valued.
America, what do I tell your children
when they ask why we’re going to war?
They will ask, as will the fear in their eyes.
America, I have another question,
have you ever been grabbed by the *****?
America, do you think the world
will be able to see past your new orange glow?
Will they see your citizens pining for progress?
Will they laugh or will they cower
at the sight of us tearing each other apart?
America, you are no longer a melting ***.
You are a child holding a sectioned dinner plate,
and the thought of trying something new
fills you with abhorrence.
America, the world is naturally colorful.
The world might see this, but you do not.
America, a locked door and a loaded gun won’t keep
a nuclear missile from stopping by to visit.
You must know that.
America, how will you end?
Will I be there to watch?

America, are you listening?
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2016
b for short Oct 2016
One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride *me.
© Bitsy Sanders, October 2016
b for short Jun 2015
Clear, simple blue skies.
Unnerving negative space.
A girl decorates.

She stitches and glues.
Flying machines of all kinds.
A girl must create.

Colors shade sunlight.
Wind gifts them the breath to dance.
A girl must hold on.

She pulls a heart string,
Knots this to her creations,
A girl unravels.

To the skies, she goes
Free in flight, she whips and spins.
A girl, so rootless.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2015
b for short Jun 2016
Don’t be afraid, little heart.
It’s simple, really.
Be smarter than to believe what’s promised,
and you’ll always have the courage
to keep beating for something,
something better.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2016
b for short Aug 2013
Warm condensation
drips in time
to some old doo-***
on the stereo.

Casually, I clear off
a small section
of the bathroom mirror.
I notice
the uninterrupted curves of my face—
the unsettled color of my eyes—
& the freckles
that weren't there yesterday.

With my fingers,
I lightly graze my mouth
between those hummed harmonies.

My lips seem
to be a deeper red this morning.

I inspect the top bit
& bite down on its bottom counterpart
if only to keep my coy smile in place.

*No one knows
what I dreamt last night
except me.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
b for short Aug 2014
{I can live life unfiltered.

I preen and uncover the riotous feathers
I always felt I had to tuck away.

When I cause those laughs,
or at the very least, those grins,
it seems suddenly, I have swallowed
something much like the sun—
all of the lit space in its seams,
and I become bright,
unchallenged, and with purpose.

I live life proudly and profoundly undressed.

To feel comfortable in my own skin
will never be this natural in any other context.

I am rarely a creature of grace, but
when I feel those fingers
run down the length of my bare back,
I become a word so treacherously beautiful,
writers are too hesitant to pen it.

Wrapped up in those arms,
I find that I fit; I’m home; I’m safe.

I get an unmatched pleasure out of
watching such a mind work—
in awe of how it knows when things fit together,
the way it peels, layers, creates, and stimulates.

No, seriously though, the mind thing?
[Nothing turns me on more.]

The same fears are shared—
of living a cliché and settling,
of pain and disfigurement,
but mostly of

I find contentment
in simply being held in the
silent repose of the morning
before my small world is awake,
and the street lamps are still
competing with the dawn.

It’s occurred to me that this has
made me into something marvelous
I didn’t know existed. }

Just know,
why I keep you around can’t be explained
See, when asked,
my little heart crescendos, and all of the words
rush to tangle on the back of my tongue.
I pull the phrases out, word by word,
and string them the way
they were meant to be read.

Don't be discouraged
by an answer of “I don’t know.”
It sometimes buys
the necessary time
for one to display the whole truth—
one that that lovely, whiskey-soaked head
can’t fully comprehend in that moment.

But maybe,
I keep you around
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2014

Originally, I wrote this with the word "because" in front of each line in the bracketed section. I find that when I read it silently to myself, I still kind of whisper the "because" where it once was. It was only fitting to make it the title.
b for short Apr 2014
It's a weird feeling.
I sneezed so hard I think I
popped an *****.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2014
b for short May 2014
Inspiration becomes a **** suckled dry.
Inspiration was
all of this brilliance, exuded at once.
Awe-striking productions
left stone-washed and faded.
Inspiration became a crumpled up genius,
thrown to the side and
pressed into the cracked concrete
by busy pedestrians.
The same bodies
who only think to look
in one dismal direction.

In a matter of weeks,
Inspiration disintegrates and
leaves its creator with
no reward—
just ******* at some dry ****
that will never come to fruition.

Just ******* at some hopeless dissatisfaction.

Just *******.
© Bitsy Sanders, May 2014
b for short Oct 2016
Cold air on the cheeks makes
for a natural blush.
This is a “healthy” look—
I read once from a banned book,
on mute,
in my parent’s bathroom
while everyone else was dreaming.
A “healthy” truth I’ve always
kept hidden under my tongue,
exposed only to moments
matured for keeping.
Licked lips, feel a sting and a dare
to think that I may never really
unlock that door.
That I might just continue
reading words, unapproved,
while other eyes stay shut.
Hiding healthy truths under my tongue
until I’m brave enough
to speak or
© Bitsy Sanders, October 2016
b for short Dec 2013
I'm not ashamed to say
that today,
my ***** look impeccable.
They do—
and that makes me beam
in every possible way.
we're rounding a long winter,
and it's cloudy outside.
I'm smart enough to know
that most days—
you have to make
your own god ****** sunshine.
© Bitsy Sanders, December 2013
b for short May 2016
Picked from a high shelf; me,
no stranger to quiet and dust.
Examine my spine
before you crack it.
Part my pages to
finger my words.
Messages and meanings
ravenously devoured—
syllables and syntax,
contentedly noshed.
Happy to have something
to hold; me,
just happy to be held.
Yet, no place was marked
when you snapped me shut
without warning or regard.
Back to the shelf I went,
unfinished and untold—
into the familiar dust; me,
never knowing just
how I end.
© Bitsy Sanders, May 2016
b for short Mar 2014
Oh, I see—you liked it when I used that big word, huh?
You want me to use some more?
Mm, let me just grab my pocket Thesaurus.
Yeah, that's right baby, I take it everywhere with me—
I find it quite useful in these… situations.

Right now, I could give you seven variations
of the word “****.”
                 Mmhm, you liked that one, didn't you?
You'd like more, I can tell,
but I need you to want it.

Let's go somewhere quiet
and thumb through
my college style manuals for a few hours.
We could talk about sentence variety,
the Oxford comma, some syntax,
and mm, if you're feeling real good,
maybe even discuss the proper usage of a semi-colon.

Just know, I've been saving semi-colons
for, you know, that special someone.

If things get a little steamy, we can go down to the basement
and I'll show you my Scrabble board.
I'll set you up for a triple-word score,
and you can put together some of those high-scoring,
two-letter words that really get me going.
Oh yeah, I think I'd be into your strategy.

When the game is over, I'll lean you back,
come in real close, and whisper some Neruda,
some Cummings,
some Dickinson
softly into your ear.
Afterward, I’ll trace lines of Hughes and Whitman
down your naked spine with my fingers.

I'm sure you know it's only polite
to return the favor.

It's just an idea.
I know it sounds good.
Trust me, I'll be gentle—
But baby, believe me—
I could punctuate you in all the right places.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
b for short Aug 2013
I've got guilt choking all of my good juju.

I’m sorry I told you we’d hang out
just so I could come over
to watch Breaking Bad.
You know I need that
weekly crystalbluepersuasion.

I’m sorry I didn't sit on the porch steps
with you afterward
while you had your evening cigarette.
(I could have done that at least.)

I imagined you
sitting there
watching me
drive down the street &
out of your sight—
a lit cigarette hung limply from your lips.

I felt your disappointment &
I cursed my mother for teaching me
to have such a sharp sense of empathy.

I know I’ll never be badass enough
not to care.
I realize I was born to give
one too many *****.
I've learned to accept it
as my incessant character flaw.

(It could be worse.)

I have to be honest,
I get my kicks
entertaining the notion
that for one evening
I was
the one that got away.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
b for short Jun 2014
Three jobs, seven cats,
crooked glasses, and wet hair.
*(I know you want me.)
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2014
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