It hides in the spaces between
every adjective I spit out
like milk that’s gone bad,
patiently waiting
to lace its fingers around
the back of my neck
and pull me closer with
its newest allure
cigarette breath,
kiss me to death.

Nestled as a punchline,
after every minor inconvenience
like accidentally running out of gas
or driving past my old place
and knowing
someone else
lives there now.

Showing up
when least expected;
I find leftover bits of it,
stuck to me indefinitely,
like forgotten electrodes
glued to my body
I peel them off
one by one
but somehow
there’s always more.
Brooke P Jun 28
Why does he get to be happy?
when he should be knee-deep
in regret and repenting
from calling me crazy
and lazy
and blaming any fault on me.

Why does she deserve what I built?
when all I got was a botched love
or something worse than that
compelling me
to feel as if
I don't deserve anything
still ringing true
from his distorted,
gnarled logic.

Why can't I have what they have?
I guess the joke's on me
once again
and I'm left being haunted
by flashes of him in the kitchen
rendering me
feeling all or nothing
overwhelmed or numb.

Why does he get to be happy?
and surely sleep soundly at night
next to her
and dream of the future
that I once dreamt of too,
pried loose
from my unsteady hands.
Brooke P Jun 27
Sometimes I catch myself
wrapped up in the moments
when we were making up
my feet on your dash
going somewhere fast
all this frozen in my past -
the wind pounding through me
breathing in the warm air
always taking the scenic route.

I remember the small details
like your dimples
when a smile spread across your face
and the gap in your teeth
that I wished would stay.
You sang me to sleep
with that voice you hated
but it sounded like honey
to my ears, softly driving me
into your arms.

I've tried to erase
the memories of you
but that's just not something I can do
because every breeze of every season
smells like you
and everything we made each other do.
I know I was to blame
when you didn't feel the same,
and of course, I'm ashamed
of my past self
and maybe you are too.
But distance tricked us,
and I long for being a kid
slowly lowering my eyelids
as we drove past the power grids.
Brooke P Jun 22
I saw a psychic
for the first time in my life;
it was horrifying.
She audibly observed
the tremendous pain in my eyes
and somehow picked out
the simultaneous emptiness and confusion
that I feel welled up inside of me.

She went on,
pinpointing my chaotic last four years,
me, struggling to find identity, and
looking for it in material possessions
and other people.
Telling me of my father's stubbornness,
and how that's not all I inherited from him.

I was scared;
because every word sputtered
exposed the innermost parts of me,
and spoke razor-sharp truths
to whatever it is that inhabits my core.
And she told me,
foreboding and omniscient,
I could overcome these troubles
if I find god again
and in that moment,
I felt that she might
be right.

But the worst piece of knowledge
she bestowed upon me,
was to stop looking for love;
instructing me to cease the search
that I've become accustomed to.
And I hate that
she's probably right.
And on the drive home from downstate
I prayed she wasn't,
because that would mean
even more years alone
with myself,
and I don't know
if I could endure it.
Brooke P Jun 9
I'm retracing my steps
with a skeptical pen
and my tired feet
through our brief story,
to see where I started
to walk off the page.

I try to pinpoint
every smile that was half hearted
and every remark
that was unremarkable
before the pain in my feet
migrates to my head
and this pain in my chest
punctures my pride.

We had a petite love,
never quite blossoming
never quite growing
to it's full potential
and I'm the one stuck
wanting more time
and I keep wasting my own time
so I can't place blame,
but I'll let a little anger
sneak through
because it's warranted,
and because
it feels so goddamn good.
Brooke P May 21
The grass is greener on my side,
this time
and it's freshly mowed,
releasing its scent into the noses
of the kids running up and down the streets,
screaming their praises to the god of summer,
and begging for just a little bit more time.
Steam rising from the burning pavement,
the smell of cookouts
the warm air
springing life to the city around me.

Riding in my car with all the windows down
screaming along to Say Anything
and feeling alive with the glory of love.
All of this creeping up on me
surprising me with its inviting grin,
everything is funny now
because all of this
always leads me
straight back
to you.

I dig my toes into the cold dark dirt
thinking to myself these words
that could never encompass
the taste of the atmosphere around me,
finally wrapping itself in a flannel blanket.
I feel like a broken record
scratching at the same chorus,
trying adjectives to describe the way
today smells like better times,
but I'm determined
and I'll keep trying
to make these times even better.
Brooke P May 9
You finally called me,
after four years.
You said it was the only number
you had ever committed to memory,
and you were wondering if it was still
connected to me on the other side.
As it rang in my unsteady palms,
I thought to myself about how
you probably still cuff your Levi's
so that they hang above your
black and white Janoski's,
and write songs about lovers,
cruising the streets
listening to our favorite band,
that I only fell in love with
after you left.

You talked just like you did back then,
gently and sweetly,
and I was scared
because I knew how you used to
pull me in and never let me go.
We spoke about our separate lives,
and you said you didn't write anymore,
and it turns out
you only knew one album
by that favorite band
all along.
You told me you were happy.

I think we stayed together
out of fear, because
it felt like home,
and who wants to be homeless?
So I guess I'm still in love
with the old you
the thought of you
the person I could vent to
and I compare everyone I meet
to the person you were
before your taillights escaped east
into the New England fog.
Next page