Nov 2013
Some girls sell their virginity for five thousand dollars
My virginity was worth 25 dollars and a bucket of ping pong *****
I don’t see the guy much anymore, he’s very important; worth a lot more than a coffee date and a kiss on the forehead (or briefly on the mouth)
My dad knows I kiss boys. My dad knows I smoke. My dad says not to tell my mother, so I don’t. “Gauky teenage girl, smoke up, don’t tell your mother”
"Have a drink don’t, tell your mother"
"Take the car, don’t tell your mother"
He doesn’t know she’s dead. Dead to me. Dead to herself. Mourning someone with them at the same time is a weird thing. Stages of greif don’t come in tidle waves, they come in laundry fights that last 2 weeks, and sundays when we can’t get out of bed.
Its easy to romantasize parts about yourself that are untouched; that sound mundain, so they must be gold. I live in a college town. Someday I’ll be someone’s girl from indiana. I ****** a boy with sharp teeth who told me I was “******* beautiful”, but the reality about these things is that they don’t matter.
Every state has college towns (there are many other like it, but this one is mine). Being someone’s girl from indiana doesn’t count for ****, what does that say about me “my girl is a geographic mystery, because no one gives a **** about that *** **** southern mess”.
And that boy, with brown hair and sharp teeth told my I was ******* beautiful, but in the moment it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t like his body, or the way he sat. I thought his passions were redundant.
So don’t fall in love with yourself
Don’t say grace
Don’t kiss on the mouth, and don’t tell your mother
My virginity was worth 25 dollars and a bucket of ping pong *****
I don’t see the guy much anymore, he’s very important; worth a lot more than a coffee date and a kiss on the forehead (or briefly on the mouth)
My dad knows I kiss boys. My dad knows I smoke. My dad says not to tell my mother, so I don’t. “Gauky teenage girl, smoke up, don’t tell your mother”
"Have a drink don’t, tell your mother"
"Take the car, don’t tell your mother"
He doesn’t know she’s dead. Dead to me. Dead to herself. Mourning someone with them at the same time is a weird thing. Stages of greif don’t come in tidle waves, they come in laundry fights that last 2 weeks, and sundays when we can’t get out of bed.
Its easy to romantasize parts about yourself that are untouched; that sound mundain, so they must be gold. I live in a college town. Someday I’ll be someone’s girl from indiana. I ****** a boy with sharp teeth who told me I was “******* beautiful”, but the reality about these things is that they don’t matter.
Every state has college towns (there are many other like it, but this one is mine). Being someone’s girl from indiana doesn’t count for ****, what does that say about me “my girl is a geographic mystery, because no one gives a **** about that *** **** southern mess”.
And that boy, with brown hair and sharp teeth told my I was ******* beautiful, but in the moment it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t like his body, or the way he sat. I thought his passions were redundant.
So don’t fall in love with yourself
Don’t say grace
Don’t kiss on the mouth, and don’t tell your mother
