It's not my fault he liked me even though I wore overalls.
Kind of sad, isn't it?
That someone could be so desperate
as to hit on a sorry excuse for a woman
who strode confidently in a white tee and jean
overalls with gym sneakers.
But maybe he found the way my collarbone
stuck out of the top of my shirt enchanting
or even fell dizzy imagining
what I would look like underneath.
Perhaps, he hoped I had something ****
on beneath the big **** pockets.
(I didn't, in case you were wondering).
Yet, he asked my name after I noticed him
watching me examine an avocado
for the bad spots, checking to see if the pit
was still green. He laughed, slightly,
when I told him it was
None of your **** business why I have
ten cans of Spaghetti O's in my cart!
I was polite enough not to question
why he had a Cosmo magazine in his,
or if he was making tacos for dinner
based on his pound of ground round
or the wrong brand of bagged lettuce
resting next to corn shells and salsa.

It's not my fault that I'm a two drink drunk.
He's the one that bought the expensive wine,
and asked me to join him for, you guessed it, tacos.
I hated the way he kept his socks on in bed,
but he didn't stop holding me when it was over
and he never asked me to leave when I woke up
in the morning. He brought me coffee, black, and sat
reading the paper like a gentleman while I
asked to turn on cartoons. He had the jaw line
of an actor and hair that could be in a shampoo commercial,
and I hadn't shaved my legs in three days, but
he still drew circles on my knees as he read.

I ran myself through the shower to dilute the blame.
My phone rang all the next day, no pick up.
Just burning noodles in the *** and picking
at my nails as I sat alone in the kitchen.
I threw that morning's paper away.
It's not my fault that I love the rain.

I cut a negative hole from your earlobe
down to your shoulder blade,
and used the space to mask the personal void
between my separate ventricles,
pumping the breakup through, slowly,
in small doses.
The sculpted edges of your figure
kept close to my soft curves
holding together what you could salvage
from my tears and breathless begging
for a different set of circumstances,
but your bed

still smelled like sweat and *** from yesterday's,
I guess farewell, love making. And my baby blanket
covered your legs as I nuzzled into your bare chest,
drowning your pecks in sadness.
You kissed my nose twelve times, little nibbles,
like a button in a nursery rhyme,
lulling me into a coma of over thinking and restless
slumber.

I don't remember leaving in the morning,
but I remember ironing my collar, losing
the back of my earring in the carpet,
misplacing my books for my 9a.m.
I remember you holding my hand
under the table at breakfast while you dunked
pieces of hash brown into hot sauce
while I picked at the top of a blueberry muffin
barely able to say bless you,
God bless you when you sneezed.
But you carried me, my dishes I mean,
to the end of the line and you smiled
when we said goodbye.

I spread my fingers through her hair, all in knots.
An empty pie tin lies on the floor, binged and dropped
from her side. I'm propping her on the dream she's slipped in.
Cherry goo stains her lip. I thumb the remains,
wiping it on my jeans as she breathes
stale, sugar crust. Her mascara clumps
underneath her lash-line, eyes blinking
like a monarch's wings.
I peel her socks off, cold toes resting
in my hands. She curls beneath
a layer of down and ratty, baby blanket.
Quietly, as she ties herself to another
panic-induced slumber, I flush
her ***** down the toilet and clean
the rim of the bowl with bleach
and the towel we wrapped
each other in the night before
after our shower.
She wakes at the sound of me *******
the lock on her bedroom door, begging
Do you really have to go?
I fall into the falsetto of her trance,
tasting her paleness before I've even
begun to kiss her skin to sleep again.
She sighs as I fit the mold,
wrapping my arms around her frailty,
tucking this Saturday night episode
under the bed skirt.

I fell out of the top bunk once
completely naked
right onto the linoleum floor
of your dorm room,
praying that your roommate
wouldn't roll over and see my ***
at 3a.m.

I quietly crawled back up to you.
You cradled my spine,
I'm never letting you go again, I promise.
I told you I was fine,
so we both started laughing.
I had to cover your mouth
or else you'd wake the whole floor up.

You blare Kanye West from your speakers
when you're signing checks
or finishing that last math problem,
and I'll just sit next to you and grab
a piece of scrap paper to doodle on
while asking you stupid questions
just because I want to get you talking again.
Sometimes you take it out on me, but

sometimes we have cereal after ***.
You spoon feed me while I sit on your lap
in just our underwear
gasping when the cold milk
drops on our skin--
fruit loop kisses
and detangling my hair with your fingers.

I wear your Polo pull-over backwards
to the boys bathroom sometimes
just because it's closer to your room
and because my name is no secret anymore.

And on Sunday's I fold your laundry
on a gray blanket I lay overtop my ***** carpet,
because I love the smell of clean boxers
and you don't know how to iron dress shirts right.

But you kiss me with your mouth open,
and you hold me when I fall asleep,
and you're all I want to wake up to.

Remember how I'd smoke after school
outside your classroom window
watching you pack up your briefcase,
pulling your arms through your blazer sleeves?
Four cigarettes in a ring
between my thumb and fingertips,

an "okay" sign.
You preferred jean dresses with the hips cut out,
knee-high fishnet socks,
my hair wrapped curiously in bandana red
with my eyes outlined in black.

I stole condoms and Twinkies,
brought them to your apartment
after you'd call to unwrap me

like penny candy
on the mattress in the middle of your floor,
each tear in synch with the teeth
of your zipper releasing.

A green wrapper
and an empty trash can
next to my book bag.
You licked your fingers
after the last bite.

She hides her Bible underneath the ****** box
because he doesn't want to have kids,
but she still prays
for his keep
every night
after he pulls long wings
from her back to her ribs—
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with his nails as she whispers fake, unholy phrases.

She tripped into his superstition
watching him fashion his weapon—
a rosary noose
to choke blessings and psalms
out of her throat.
He rarely remembers to say goodnight,
but she traces his eyelids once he's asleep

like crop circles
making a thin bridge over his nose
connecting pinpoint constellations.
She kisses his neck and chest
over and over again,
secretly hoping
he wakes up and puts his arm around her.

She paints in the basement
with an old light bulb
listening to the hum of the space heater,
gagging on the acrylic fumes,
because he thinks all art
is useless
and all power is manmade confidence,
and the stars are just coincidence,
and he only married her
so they could ****,
finally.
Sometimes he doesn't come home,

but she makes the bacon the way he likes it,
and she presses all of his shirts twice.

My boyfriend used to take me to Pizza ****
(as we always called it)
after every home basketball game.
We'd fill up on bread sticks,
box the leftover slices,
just so they could sit in the back seat
of his green Chevy jeep
while we made out in the parking lot
with Eric Church's new CD on the stereo.

I told everyone the bruises on my thighs
were just an accident,
when really he pushed me
into the tires
after he had a few or dozen beers
at the party down Bear Run.
He never did like being told
what he shouldn't do.

We'd lay down the seats
and sleep on sweatshirts
with a cooler lid for a pillow
until 10a.m. on a Sunday,
an hour late for mass.
Silently we'd ride
until we'd reach the power plant.
He'd cough and I'd sigh,
quietly singing until we'd reach my driveway.
He never did kiss me
whenever he'd drop me off.

I came back spring break
the following year.
The jeep in his yard with a for sale sign
propped against the hood
and his cell number
written in blue window chalk
just above the windshield wipers.
I saw his little sister
peek behind the curtain
when I knocked on the door,
but no one came to answer.
So I lit a cigarette and drove home
listening to "Springsteen."