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Thrifting through men
Nothing unique
Pathetic ***** want ***.
whether i said it or not
i loved you all very much*

(act 1)

this is an ode to the dark room
in which i made you bleed
and you found the courage to laugh
at my clumsy hands. you,
forever cloudy eyes and sideways glances,
think you love me. you are mistaken.
but when the carpet seemed
like grass, and you reached out
for something i will never understand,
i let myself shake with the moon, let myself
escape guilt for the first time.
and new lovers flooded in
because i tore myself open for you.

(act 2)

“right now, r-right now,
i love you”
drunk and desperate, i threw
my middle school needs upon you in some kind of
suicidal mission of my childhood,
you took it. you smiled.
and you did not understand.
sacrificial and first.
pure.
you fade fast.

(act 3)

sometimes i return to
kind puddled visions of the night you taught me
what it meant to make love
and what it meant to apologize.
i would like to defeat you, to not have to imagine
my tears dripping onto your stomach
and you far away, too male and hard.
i would like to think that i could darken
the yellow light reflecting from your skin
by badly hung christmas lights,
even if your confession was the only one that was holy.
i can forget.
it is what i am best at.

(act 4)

now
    there is another
another sinking stone, with full eyes
and hopeful hands and when i dream
he is there
curled up in a life
in which i am awake and unafraid.
i have known you for a week.
you told my father i am wonderful.

(act 5)

i went to a wedding for two women
who were together for 25 years, even
before the ceremony, even after
they had explored every part of each other’s bodies.
i cried
and prayed for the power to give myself up.
but i renounce god everyday.
The word love, is overused.
Abused.
And when the words tumble carelessly out of your mouth,
It scars.
 Feb 2014 Shannon Crouse
Love
What happened to the love I used to show?
To that one girl,
or boy,
that I used to like?
What happened to my love for them?
Now I just flirt.
And its not a loving flirt,
its an empty,
and soul less flirt.
I've turned into a *****.
I would kiss
the ground she walks on,
but she always takes flight,
is so ethereal
& such a mystery,
I can't seem to
find any of
her footprints.

So instead,
I kiss the air she breathes,
hoping she inhales me.
We have
a special
connection
you and I,
the words we write
create nice reactions.

I think mine makes
yours moist,
'cause mine's
hard
to read
when I'm alone.
The highway
is my girlfriend,
I love the black ribbons
she wears
in her endless hair,
flowing
we have
so much clean
fast-fun.

I tune into FM,
her radar love
& cruising in my Hemi,
a Barracuda swimming
at supersonic speeds,
I lean on the accelerator,
hitting hyperspace.

I find myself there
& loving
the transmission lines
on her worn face,
I fly alone
in the darkness,
on Route 41
driving
under stars.
In hiding
we cry
for a release
from the mundane,
with visions of greener grasses,
a better other side
beyond the thin veil
& with our remote dreams
tasting like anxiety
stuck in a throats,
we wrote poetry.

— The End —