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Don't make me read a biography.
They're always such a tease and I
always want more. When did your
first tooth come out. Whose been lucky
enough to kiss you. Don't tell me where
you went to school. I don't care what
year you graduated: tell me where you
ate lunch, tell me what songs got you
through that bus ride home.

You're telling me the skeleton, give me
the flesh, give me the intricate details of
your nerves and cells. I don't want no
flashcard facts, give me that scrapbook
your grandma made. Let me see you get
embarrassed. Just let me see you.
I read the obituary and think of you.
I think of us together and how one day,
we won’t get to choose life or death.
It’ll just happen and one of us will be left
without the other. When I read books
about lovers trying to move on after
their sun goes out, I can’t handle it.
When my grandma died, sure I was upset
for losing her, but I was on edge by the thought
of my grandfather sleeping alone from then on.
And I know it’s so far away and I know
that it doesn’t make sense as a twenty-something
to think about it. But I want to tell you I love you
every time I hear someone has died. I want to run
my hands over your skin and make it permanent.
I want to believe that there’s an afterlife and we all just
become reconnected. When I hear someone has died
I want to hear your voice against my cheek, sighing my name,
over and over again.
There were always so many lizards and cat statues made out of china. But at some point what started to matter more were the boys on the pubescent school bus yelling obscenities and stealing ****** kisses from girls stuffing their bra and being too cool to wear Limited Too. It became difficult to imagine the lizard cage behind the duplex, a chain-linked refrigerator box, when there was a school dance to be embarrassed at while forming dance circles, soda can in hand. Then standing on the corner waiting for my dad to take me home before any of the late night talk shows aired.

Flash-forward: A blow-up air mattress in the middle of the living room at five in the morning and we were high.

We’re growing up from: the VW that smelled of crayons,
skipping class to go to the library downtown,
the greasy spoon diner,
the Goodwill,
fall outs, anxiety, lorazepam, writing ****** poetry,
getting popsicles from whole foods and eating them in the park during winter.

The sun’s lavender light peaked through the closed blinds while the satisfaction of making out with a boy who likes boys felt as good as the realization that girls don’t always have to like boys either.

There’s a chance I could still catch a lizard.
And yea it’s cliché, but **** happens and things change.
for Rachel.
11/26/12

In class we had to interview another student using mostly images to answer the questions. This poem does not represent my "growing up" but Rachel's and I hope she doesn't hate it.
Tonight
I
am
chasing
the
sunset
to
get
to
you.
If I was a candy
I'd be a sour
warhead.
Pink.
The longer you
let me sit,
the sweeter I get
and at the very
center
is a gooey bit
that goes down
easy.
Everybody loves
a peppermint,
but I'm not that
plain.
 Sep 2012 simimische
Quinn
tides
 Sep 2012 simimische
Quinn
we built our friendship
out of whiskey bottles,
bowl packs and friendly *****

porch sitting in the sunshine
and soaking in the laughter and stories
that raced from our lips
one after another
like derby horses darting from the gate

I admit that I still ache
for you,
but I've come to accept
this truth for what it is

so please forgive me if my
words perceive a penned phantom pain
for this life comes in waves
and I can't catch them all,
sometimes I get ****** into the depths,
lured by the undertow

— The End —