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 Dec 2011 Christine
vermin
I want to kiss your cheek in the morning,
to write love on your arms with my hands,
these broken things so undeserving of your worship.

You saw me when my skin was broken,
when I clung to all that had left,
when my love was wasted on gutter dreams.

So now I seek your hands,
the ones that held me so close,
when I was too scared to be loved.

New moments holding a memory sweet but harsh,
like the times you were mine, yet never us,
never something that held any trust.

Nobody makes me laugh like you do,
still I'm uncertain, uneasy in your eyes,
everything I want, yet our sentiment is strange.

A liar's tongue, a braggart's mouth,
the ways we increase this love's promise,
but I'll never find a way to tell it all.

Maybe I sensed it in the beginning,
how we'd always be star crossed
and I'd always want more from you.

...but now it's different
"protege moi, protege moi"
I see you and I'm home.

maybe this always was
the one thing
we'd never know the meaning of

lucky to trust
bound by love
hands intertwined forever
 Dec 2011 Christine
Waverly
The best buzz
is that one singular moment
right after the first forty,
when you've got a Marlboro
hanging with its fingernails
to your bottom lip.

And you're so lazy
and warm
that you push the smoke out
without lifting a finger.
 Dec 2011 Christine
Pink Taylor
And now it's
"We need to talk to you."
It's
awkward giggles through the wall.
Other sounds,
I don't want to know
at all.
It's her
making breakfast
when she hasn't cooked in years.
It's him
walking in the door
when she's not even here.
It's
trying to avoid
awkward conversation
when I'm
high as a kite
put politeness is the expectation.
It's
things in the house
suddenly being fixed.
It's
extra noise when there should be silence.
It's
wondering if he'll try to be my "dad"
and if he steps out of line
you know I'll fight back.
It's
flattening my quills,
remind myself:
he's a different person.
I guess it's
hard to put a family back together
once it's broken.

      (or never even existed in the first place)
 Dec 2011 Christine
Waverly
Smurf.
 Dec 2011 Christine
Waverly
I make
stupid decisions
when I'm drunk.

I drink whiskey without food
and puke up yellow bile.

I put my hands on girl's *****
who have protective boyfriends
and get into shouting
and physical
matches
with dudes I can't remember.

I talk about love
and stupidity
in the same
sentence.

And I yell
like a *******.

Sometimes I yell some incoherent
*******,
while Josh drives back to the crib,
****
about how
I love the girls I can never ****,
**** the girls I could never love,
and don't know ****
about love
in the first place.

That's what I mean by stupid.

I'm a smurf that doesn't know it's blue
when I'm drunk.

Blue smurf.
 Dec 2011 Christine
Waverly
It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.

By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.

“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”

“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”

“Probably not
until
late.”

The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.

The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.

Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.

By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.

98 degrees and cloudless.

Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.

My shirt is soaked already too.

But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.

When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.

When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.

But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.

Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.
 Dec 2011 Christine
Amina Sibtain
They bribed me with promises of Audis and poverty reduction.
A six-figure salary, insurance, and free weekends.

They lured me with Prada bags, Chanel Shades and scarves by Hermes.
Vacations in Nice, transits in Paris, and business trips to Beijing.

They said I could meet the Dalai Lama, Bill Gates and the Queen of England,
have wine with Sarkozy, break bread with Al Gore, and kiss Prince William.

They dangled real men, real love and post-marital affairs in front of me
and gave me dreams of seven husbands and no divorces.

They convinced me to grow up and walk across the stage,
and their promises made me smile as I crossed over to the other side.

Today, I lay in my hammock wishing they’d promised me a job as well.
 Dec 2011 Christine
Waverly
Untitled
 Dec 2011 Christine
Waverly
I miss you
girl
with the hair that smells
like sweet beer
and
breath
like iron.

I am anemic
and brutal
without you.
 Dec 2011 Christine
Helen
I held you softly
as you slept
I held you gently
as you wept
I held you tightly
as you screamed
I stroked your hair
as you dreamed
I wiped the tears
that would not dry
I cried the tears
you would not cry
I took the demons
in your head
and made them
Mine instead
I need to be
by your side
don’t turn me away
I am not your Pride
I am not your Pity
I am not your Sorrow
I am here Today
I am your Tomorrow
This is one of my oldest and most beloved writes. I never considered adding it to any collections until today. Considering this will be my one true legacy I leave behind, it is as relevant to me today as the day it was written. Enjoy :)
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