"airbnb" poems
I'm the quiet one
& also the outspoken one.
I'm the "gets in arguments at bars with sexist men" one.
I'm paint splatters on a white wall.
I'm spilt glitter in the carpet.
I'm hopeful in the sense that everything has to work out,
but i'm not going to actually do anything about it.
I'm a lover. Maybe too much, even.
But you probably wouldn't see it in me.
I'm stand off-ish.
I think every car on the highway is going to hit me.
I spend hours watching crime show re-runs.
I think i'm a "manic pixie dream girl"
even though I ******* hate that phrase.
I'm a wino.
I'm paranoid.
I'm reckless.
I like to do drugs that take me out of my mind.
I'm the kind of person who keeps trinkets,
such as old love notes & my high school prom ticket.
I guess I'm a hoarder of sorts.
A hoarder of nostalgia.
I'm a dreamer.
I dream way too much.
I'm the one who holds on to the good memories
& pretends like they're still there, when they're not.
I'm clueless but i'm learning
(I read that somewhere)
I'm the one who watches a movie & afterwards
pretends i'm the main character.
I'm like sour milk.
I'm a jealous person at times.
I'm a good soup maker.
I'm an even better pen pal.
I'm not good with money,
but I am good at wasting it.
I'm really good at wasting things.
I'm a great party hostess, ask anyone.
I'm a record lover, a music lover really.
I'm the one who has a "Suicide song"
and jokes about it.
I'm offensive & blunt.
I curse too much,
but I think people kind of like it.
I'm somewhat of a narcissist.
why else would I still be writing about myself?
I'm a good person.
A solid gold oldie.
I'm the girl of your dreams if you want me to be.
I'm stubborn like my father, who was in a Italian mob,
or so he says.
Which reminds me,
I have "daddy issues"
(I also ******* hate that phrase)
I'll never tell my secrets.
I'm an interrupter.
God that must be annoying.
I bite my nails. Ever since I was a kid.
I look up plane tickets & Airbnb's for fun.
I'm teaching myself French.
I usually sleep until 1pm.
I'm the oldest child, yet need my mom the most.
I'm a collector,
But nothing of value.
I'm magazine clippings & unfinished projects.
I'm bad at remembering to take my medicine.
I'm impulsive.
I'm always on the run.
A girl with a plan.
Girl, uninterrupted.
I'm just me.
Whoever that really is.
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 12:50 AM UTC
Would the growing distance between us be filled with
angered screams
regretful tears
or a quiet understanding?
Would you place the blame on me because
I didn't love you enough
I kept my walls up
and I never invested all of my energy into us?
Would I try to explain that
my head was in a dark place
I was being pulled in a thousand directions
and I hoped you'd see the beauty in my disaster?
Would we reminisce on
our trip to that tiny island
to that little Airbnb
that had the exposed brick?
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 1:00 AM UTC
We’re standing outside this airbnb in the heart of the city —
a clever idea of mine; an upgrade if I say so myself
Moving from the back of your car
to chasing you up the king size bed
We pulled the couch out and did our thing there, anyways
I don’t think about it anymore but I just heard the song
I swayed uncontrollably to outside
Not sure if I was drunk, it was cold, or a mixture of both
Humming as I exhaled cigarette smoke
And then you went right back to breathing me in
It’s good for me to look back on these things
That’s what I say to myself, at least
When I can smile about it
and the thought of not having it doesn’t sting
Almost like a gentle reminder of the good things to come
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it.
i’ve only done it
once or twice. last night
i awoke from a dream
in which you were playing johnny cash
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
and ‘every day is one day less.’
we were staying in an airbnb
and the room reeked of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i was thinking about how you told me
you didn’t have as many freckles
as you wished you did
as i peeled the sticker
from the front of the book.
tell me you have enough
to pay for what you want in life
and tell me you’re not an addict
cause you’ve only done it
once or twice
and let me tell you about mountain lions
and how the chlorine in the swimming baths
used to taste like cider and cough syrup
like ginger ale and painkillers
that dissolve on your tongue
before you swallow them down.
i whisper to you that my mother
used to lick matchboxes
(speak louder, love, come on)
before her daddy left her too
not because he didn’t love her
but because it hurt too much
to love her in the way
only he could understand.
last night i awoke from a dream
in which we filled our suitcases
with shampoo and sugar packets
and i recited the final lines
of my favourite shakespeare play
as you sat up on the windowsill
and lit yourself a cigarette
and said: don’t look at me like that.
you know i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i’m staring at you from the carpet
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before.
i used to say that some cynics die
and that i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
cause i’ve only done it once or twice
and i’ve only told you
a thousand times
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
when i thought about what i’d done to her
and what i’d tried to do
to myself.
last night i awoke from a nightmare
in which the walls were
bleeding red
and then the trees had broken arms
and i got my ankles caught
in the mud
and i’ve been crying more
than i know i should
because i hate the way it burns
but god, i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
so let me tell you about mountain lions
and people who no longer think of me
and who will never think
about me again
and how that’s the kind of thing
that reeks of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and ‘i never think about love, you know
i never think about—’
how some cynics die
but they often die so young
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and ‘every day is one day less’
and every breath
is one breath less
and that’s what tastes like chlorine
and that’s what tastes
like cough syrup
when you haven’t even
got a cough
but you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it
and i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i wanted to tell you
in the way i always do
(pieces of paper between my teeth)
that my prayers are just nicotine
and the man hasn’t touched a cig
for as long as my parents
haven’t each other
but that’s just gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
like you don’t need as many freckles
or as many mountain lions.
i’m staring at you through the phone screen
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before
because last night
i awoke from a dream
and i didn’t remember a thing.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
4/20/17
This is a public service announcement.
Attention
There are cockroaches in the walls of your body
Mold in the ceilings of your eyelids
You cry so often they can't dry out.
We paint over them with makeup
we have no idea why
we think paint
will fix your roof
There's still mold
There are still cockroaches
in the walls of your body.
We called them butterflies to be cutesy
it's time we told you
they are cockroaches.
In this familiar metaphor
where you are a grand hotel.
You were actually an AirBnB
Someone decided one day:
"AHH **** it.
We can open our house
to strangers
for a quick buck.
What's the worst that can happen?
They rob us?
HAH!
what are they gonna take?
We got nothin'"
then you did.
And they did.
they smelt bad
brought their girlfriend
and ****** in your guest bedroom
I mean it was your den,
with a sleeping bag
But they ****** in there!
In YOUR sleeping back
And stole your coffee maker!
YOU DIDN'T EVEN HAVE
A COFFEE MAKER
BEFORE YOU STARTED BEING
A HOTEL
you bought that ******* coffee maker
for airbnb guests
and now look at you.
Spent more on ammenaties
then you made.
Should have gone to walmart
but no
you had to "buy local"
Yes
we are still talking about your body
And cockroaches.
That ******* tennant brought cockroaches
You don't know how
but he was from new york
so it was totaly his fault.
now you need to hire pest control
BUT WHO IN THE HELL
CAN CONTROL THE PESTS
IN YOUR GODAMNED BODY
Not you.
You buy local.
These hippies don't use pesticides
thats their whole shtick.
You gotta use dirt and pray.
So you do.
You open up the wounds they left
Or you found
Or made last night
And you shove dirt in them.
And I'll be ******
if it doesn't make the cockroaches
leave.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
Next year
Tickets somewhere under 1500 round trip
Airbnb 30 a night
Train passes around 100
1 week in london
1 in dublin
Where I might stay indeffinately
If i dont get into grad school
And find a job
And get a visa
Plus spending money.
Anyway the point is
I need to get out of this town
And probably this country.
And maybe
Ill see you.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC