"hickey" poems
i have never been kissed
but my friend told me about hers
she's grounded
because he left a hickey
and i don't even know his name but i know what he tastes like
because she's just so **** happy that she's finally had her first kiss
and another friend was talking about kissing her other friend
she's my friend too, i guess
but they're girls, and i have no problem with that
honestly
but they're not even gay
and they're kissing just for fun
on a dare
and i know that i could never even pay someone to kiss me
because i know what i am
and that is not romantic
i know that i am a monster with a crooked back
and a sad smile
who laughs like a kraken at terrible jokes
and rude towards people
and tries to fit in just a little bit more
and i know that i could never even pay someone to kiss me
because i don't even know the first thing about it
and i don't even know what's happening around me
but i only care about a kiss
and that's really not the best thing for the world
but to me it matters
is it supposed to matter so much?
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
He made sure to show I belonged to him.
And of course his trade mark,
was a bruise.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Purple was the color of the shirt you wore when we first met
Purple was the color of the flowers you brought for me on our first date
Purple was the color of the sky when we first kissed
Purple was the color ink you used when you wrote me love letters every week
Purple was the color of the hickey on my neck
Purple was the color of my dress and your tie at our first school dance
Purple was the color you left my skin after our first fight
Purple was the color of hand prints around my thigh, on my back, neck, stomach
Purple is the color shirts I started wearing,
hoping we could go back to the first day we met,
when you wore
a purple shirt
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
I collapsed the seats of my Rav4
You watched my *** the whole time
And saw an opportunity
As I bent over between the front seats
One, two, then three fingers
While fumbling to turn off the hazards
Biting a seat to keep quiet
Accidentally turned the music back on
"Stay In My Memory" by Bim
The song from Him
**** him, I'll **** you instead
The hazards were off
The music still on
Your fingers making my body quake
From the inside
Twice
Strong enough to throw me around
Like I was someone cuter and smaller
And put me on my back
With a hand around my throat
Kissing at me like a dog
Making me submit like a *****
Three, four, five
"On your knees"
And you threw me there, too
Six
Around we spun
Getting rug burn
Lost count of the quakes
They started to blend
With the aftershocks
"Are marks okay?"
And then you left one
A hickey on a weeknight
And a Monday, no less
Next time, we need a bed
Rug burn is a *****
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
In a Strike
Lightning in Dice
I'm no Psych
Just a Mice
~
With a Slice
Be the Treasure
There's no Rice
But whole Pleasure
~
It's a Measure
To be Safe
Y'all Immature
Learn to Strafe
~
You a Waif
Me a Pure
Don't you Chafe
You Impure
~
Sea is Azure
Trust my Gut
But I'm Sure
I can Cut
~
Battle will Begin
Their's no Mercy
Who can Win
With no Thirsty
~
Don't be Nasty
Ships will Fire
They are Classy
Like a Choir
~
With no Tire
We will Roll
Do not Retire
That's out Goal
~
Burn the Soul
Fight with Urge
Do your Role
Let's Purge
~
We won't Merge
Enemy is tricky
To the Verge
Give them Hickey.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
When the boy you like shows up with a hickey on his neck,
do not linger.
I know what it is like to be in that state of limbo
Between hope and surrender
When every time he puts his arms around you it feels like the stars have aligned and all is right with the world.
But also when his eyes brush over the cute waitress' body for just a second too long
It feels like your chest just opened up to reveal a shriveled heart.
And let me tell you that it is not worth it.
Because while you sit at home imagining his hands on the back of your neck,
He's in the back of a car with his lips on someone else's throat.
You will spend hours,
days,
remembering every little thing he's ever said to you,
And he will almost forget your name the next time he sees you.
Darling let me tell you
that you deserve better.
You deserve someone who will repeat your name in their sleep.
His hands will feel different
but they will be warm unlike the ice cold ones of your imagination.
And if you're lucky,
you will have plenty of hickeys of your own.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
Writing his name feels like a panic attack.
I was fifteen. Young kid, lonely.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
He was eighteen. Average man,
He already knew me.
I went to his house and he gave me a hickey.
Little red mark on my neck, pretty pink,
On my skin it stayed, as I leaned over the sink.
Last night's dinner was going to come up.
The bra I wore to his house,
I've only worn it once since then.
Wearing it feels like putting his hands on me.
The jeans I wore to his house,
I lost them and decided not to look.
They were a reminder of the piece of me he took.
Everything we did, I said "yes" to.
He was the first guy to touch my chest,
I had to force my body to be mine again.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
Traumatized so beautifully.
Boy down the street.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
I just wanted to be wanted.
And he wanted my body.
Writing his name feels like a panic attack.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
You called it a love bite
Like the word hickey would burn in your mouth
and strip away the taste of her still on your lips
You called it a love bite
Because hickey sounded like troubled teens
and stained sheets
You called it a love bite
Because her perfume still stuck to your shirt
and you didn't want to take it off
You called it a love bite
because you loved her
But you knew she called it a hickey
and nothing more.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
Love is not just about holding hands every day and night
Kissing each other under a blinking light
Making her scream while she holds you tight
And after the fight, both of you lose your might
Love is a touch and yet not a touch
Touch her heart more than you touch her breast
Kiss her soul together with her lips
Hug her attitude along with her body
Make her smile not make her ***
Love her unconditionally not **** her hard
Give her letters and poems, not Hickey
Make memories with her before making her a baby
Go with her in churches, not in motels
See her with a beautiful dress not naked
Take off her problems not her clothes
Make her tears flow in happiness, not in pain
Tell her that she's a blessing
Save her if she feels that life is falling
Understand her if she's doing other things
Treat her like she's the Queen and you're the King
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 5:02 AM UTC
The Milkman Cometh
It could be Margie or it could be Pearl
bringing us our refreshment we trust
though we are all old dead beat boozers
we still enjoy sweet cookies dunked in lust
we waited for Hickey for as long as we could
to get this party off with a bang
but we've waited long enough I say
time for a grand toast gosh dang
Rocky gave us the okay to get started
but he asked us to leave Cora alone
she was busy baking a surprise cake
for the captain who was finally coming home
Hickey finally shows but wont raise his glass
says he sees better now that he's sober
but he couldn't take the kiss from her lips
and quickly began to disrobe her
got milk they all yelled as the night wore on
the police finally shut it all down
the chocolate had been spilled everywhere
the news was all over the town
Gomer LePoet....
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
They feel like breathing
For the very first time
And the only thing I can gasp
is your name and I'm
finally pretty **** close
to feeling happy, maybe free
It doesn't matter if people
stare and laugh because I'll be
In different mindset
High in those clouds
That smell of your jacket
and the echo of your name loud.
They squeal when they do the math
put two and two together
They spit out my name like
disbelief, but there are worse to weather.
Clothes pulled and coats cover
The prints I'll never explain
to my parents, for they'd not understand
How much I crave for you again and again
They call you the pervert, the gross one
obsessed with the next hookup
But it's really mostly me
whose *** drive will really drub.
M.C.M
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
I have a sign on my chest
that says "trespassers
welcome."
It's written in red ink,
the cheap kind that never really dries
and with each new boy
that invites himself into my home,
the letters become smudged.
I try to remove the sign
but it remains there
etched into my skin
and the more I pull at my skin
the stronger the pain
in my chest grows.
Trespassers are only temporary
and I pray that one day
they will stop reading my body
as an open invitation but
until that day.
My chest
will be painted
red.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
The only bruise he should ever leave on you
Is a hickey
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
Every time you lay me down on an afghan
It's like you're deflowering me again
Your lips against mine, so sweet and so soft, just us two
Skin to skin, you touch me and I melt into you
These positions are very tricky
With every one, you leave a hickey
Our hands intertwined
Reminds me you're mine
You nibbling on my ear
Makes me feel the end is near
Though I don't want his feeling to end
You slowly make my back bend
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
(In memory of Norris Hickey 1935-2014)
Love of family and fly-fishing: twin tributaries flowed
into your heart like a braided river.
Paradoxically, a sociable man who preferred to be alone
on some braided river,
basking in the peace of the wilderness,
hearing only birdsong and the gentle whirr of the fly line,
its nylon whipping to where you hoped the fish would rise.
Patience comes easily in peaceful surroundings,
unlike waiting for the blessing of grandchildren.
Eventually rewarded with five blessings.
You always said what a lucky man you were.
I’m glad your luck held because you would weep to see
your precious braided rivers drying up down here,
****** dry by the farmers’ greed for white gold
and the threatened tarāpunga (Black-billed gulls)
getting their nests crushed by callous four-wheel drives.
It would be enough to make your big, generous heart burst.
© Andrew M. Bell
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 12:41 AM UTC
It smelled like cheap beer
and stale cigarettes,
and my shoes stuck to the floor.
My head throbbed with an ache
even my ***** tonics couldn't soothe,
and watching you watching her made me
feel short of breath.
I shook her hand and smiled
as I glanced at the hickey on your neck.
You gave me a hug and offered me a cigarette,
and I smoked it in the corner
Alone.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 9:51 PM UTC
In the mirror
the hickey looks like
lipstick. When I rub
my neck
her teeth stay
stuck like kissy lips
on mirrors
of girly girls.
On the surface
the blue-blood egret
and his
white-toothed egret
friend look like
enemies.
They share the lake’s
surface like comrades splitting a spliff
during war.
The mirror’s surface
reflects my haggard
face.
The kiss on my neck brings me pleasure
that is difficult to peck in the eddy formed after she swelled along my desire.
In the mirror:
his naked body
my naked body
like the cartilages
of comrades marching back
to their bombed base.
That night he finished quiet like the veteran
egret pecking his prey.
That night I spread––
the eddy after the prey was pecked. On my surface I can’t find any traces
of his breath or his pecks. The mirror’s surface reflects our haggard love––
tired of slithering away
from egret beaks
finding it difficult
to breathe
lifting its long neck
above the swell
in the eddy
in this sea.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 11:08 AM UTC
like a walk of shame
except i'm beautiful and proud
and the fall weather got here last night
unpacked it's bags but forgot to paint the leaves
and i'm walking and there's nothing shameful about anything i did
and alleyways look beautiful too
in their own way
and i'll skip breakfast because i'm still drunk
and i'm still in love
and my shadow looks a bit taller than i do
i left my underwear behind
lace crumbled in the floor
REMEMBER ME
i stole somebody's mcdonald's
and ate it in the street corner
did i leave my cardigan at yours?
see you tomorrow
making latte art hungover in some beautiful knock off paris store
and i asked you, politely, to leave the mess outside
and you never saw that butterfly temporary tattoo on my chest
everything is temporary
because you didn't even bother to get me undressed
but you left your mark on my neck
thanks for that
just know you're not the only one who i made eyes with last night
i kissed a few on the lips
you aren't the only boy who fancied in my *** perfume
at least you walked me home
it was five am but at least you walked me home
and your dorm room wasn't big enough for how wide my legs were but this dress was tight and you bruised my thigh
or that might've been the other boy who threw me into the dark corner and i fell to the floor as he fell into me
but my hair is long enough to cover this hickey
and i'll take a sip of your coke and whiskey
i listen to that boys song and laugh on my way to work
and the shins are playing in starbucks
and i wouldn't mind if just for a second
i could pretend to die
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Baby,
I just got home.
I'm about to pass out
but don't worry,
I've put on more than enough
toothpaste to rid me of
your love.
With crossed fingers,
and a heart still pounding,
I close my eyes hoping
your magic cure works.
Either way,
you were so worth it.
Okay, goodnight.
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
You're a hickey on my neck,
bruised and red,
marking your territory,
refusing to fade.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
He broke his neck thirty years ago
I break mine more with each
promise of keeping you in my life
but Ian Curtis is on my mind a lot,
grieving for souls I will never know.
Some of his songs are so sad,
like hearing the premature
snap of his bones
Cannot help but resent
how clever society is
to glamorize the unglamorous,
even I am aware
the flowers upon graves are not just for
aesthetics, but we are still always trying
to cover terrible tragedies
with beautiful things.
Am I just as guilty?
I cheat on you with him.
His spirit through my headphones,
hoped if I listen intently
the narrative changes.
purple marks on your neck
just that weekend you
taught me what a hickey was
and how they felt good
yours’ declare ownership,
not declarations of love.
You walk into art class,
purple painted across your throat.
If love could save Ian,
had I lived in the mid-seventies
he may very well have lived forever
and his throat painted by love,
rather than the bruises of a noose.
The letters I wrote you were in vain,
my mistake quoting those Smiths’
songs:
Morrissey is an *******
and so are you.
I still
am too scared to
wonder how far I am willing
to go
to reap the benefits of sorrow.
"New Dawn Fades"
tears into my heartstrings
feeling responsible in
the prevention of another
suicide
I grapple onto
what a savior complex was,
your dead father
the tracks on your arms made me cry
but I thought it was stupid.
It made me hate myself more
why could I not learn to undo
my drive to save anyone,
but myself
The phone call
where I broke up with
you and you
pretend to
overdose on the speaker
One of us had to grow up,
had to make it out alive
And I love you again,
every time Ian's ghost
sings Isolation.
And I leave you there,
sure, to end the album
after the final song.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 10:31 PM UTC