The Onions Were Fine.

Why are people always telling us how good we look in colors we hate or how tired we look after a full nights sleep?  Why can’t they just let us pass them in the hallways or stand behind them in line at the bookstore without feeling like they owe it to us to share their impromptu opinion of us?  

I drove to the farm stand on the edge of town and I parked in the dirt lot.  My shoes gathered dust.  My hands gathered beets, onions, red peppers, dark chocolate (shipped in from the city, $1.09).  My tongue was covered in the thick fuzz that comes with a hangover.  

Why aren’t I as skinny as the teenage hippie working the old-fashioned cash register?  Why doesn’t she have to wear make-up?  Why do I care?

I set my purchase on the wooden, beaten counter top.  She picks up the chocolate first.  

How did that get in there?  I say.  I try to look perplexed.  I can feel the crows feet at the corners of my eyes.  They’re scratching and clawing me raw.

I try to buff the dirt off of my shoes with the back of my legs.  I am sweating and now there is mud.  One red pepper has a soft-spot near the bottom that I hadn’t seen before.  I say nothing and let her place it into the re-usable shopping bag with the rest.  With the chocolate.  

Why do we always assume we’re hated immediately by strangers simply based on how we look?  Why can’t I buy $10.73 worth of farm stand goodies and why can’t she just ring them up and why isn’t that just the end?

I try to walk backwards to my car so that she doesn’t see the muddy sweat streaks on the backs of my calves.  I try to smile sweetly at her while I’m doing this.  She is reading a magazine.  

How to get the perfect summer body.

Why can’t I tear the paper from a bar of chocolate before the car is even on the road?

Why can’t I have the perfect summer body?

When you leave me
it will be my fault
entirely.
When you leave me
you will take with you
everything
in the kitchen cabinets
and everything
from under
the bathroom sink.
You’ll leave with
half of the bed,
(the warm half)
and several strands
of my dead hair
stuck to the soles
of your feet.
When you leave me
it will be because of my drinking
and my extreme understanding
of our misunderstandings,
my lack of compassion
my overcompensation
my dirty mouth and dirty mind
my open legs, open ears.
I hear every conversation
you don’t have with her.
When you leave me
you’ll take the steam
from the shower
and carry my morning sickness
under your arm.
This is my fault.
Please, take me with you.
I don’t want to be here
with me anymore either.

I wrote myself
into a poem
just to save you
the clean up
of what’s about
to happen.
I hear ink
leaves less behind
than blood.

My pain
is personal
and wet.
It leaves stains
on all the walls
and before they’ve dried
you draw faces
into them
with the tips
of your fingers.
Your fingers too,
are stained now.
My pain
is an electrical outlet
and the wiring
behind the plate
is faulty
and dangerous.
You put your fingers
in the socket
and wiggled
until the shock
set in.
My pain
is a paper cup
and it’s empty
on a windy day
and I’m tumbling
across the park green
collecting pollen
and bug teeth,
wings.
There was once in me,
wine
and the lovers
finished drinking
and were left with red
on their lips
and their tongues
which made it easier
for them
to set me free.

flowers on ice.

I’ll be home
after mid-night
so keep the flowers
on ice,
keep your heart
warm
inside the oven,
keep your hands
off the other girls.

I don’t need
to be fucked
I need you
to fuck me,
there’s a difference
in that.
I don’t need
my heart
to work properly,
I need my heart
to explode
inside my chest
and fill my body
with blood
and ooze,
there’s no difference
in that,
it’s all the same
if you think about it.

Acoustic Fuck Fest

start with
slow
snapping
strings,
add
simple-sugar,
shaking
smiles,
cigarette scars
and stir in
solid
stars,
stretched
stories,
slather
over skin
ignoring
the sulfur
scent,
soak
in the sea
and repeat.

Here’s how I’ll do it,
here’s how I’ll attach myself
to you.
My hair
through the eye of a needle,
the needle
through your skin,
a firm twist
of my head
will tighten our bond
and I’ll rest it finally
against your arm,
watching blood-drop
constellations form
like a light show
just for us.

A Love Poem You Can Complain About

There are caves
undiscovered
all over the world
with loves poems
on the walls
that were never
finished
because their
authors
were suddenly struck
with
the hearts
of their lovers.

I have seen
so many wonderful things.
I’ve been very lucky
in that way.
New York City
at midnight
is brighter sometimes
than the moon,
and flowers
when they are blooming
right in front of you
are so magnificent
that I’ve been made to feel
tiny and
grey
in their opening shadows.
And so there happens to be
a shadow cast over me
by your form
and in it I am humbled
and small,
but unlike the flowers
or the City
you take my hand
and force me to rise
with you,
stand next to you
and blossom along side of you.
I feel I belong
inside of your skin,
I’ve been very lucky
in that way.

thefoxbones:

Follow Tiredfoxes here on Tumblr.

Follow Tiredfoxes on facebook.

Buy my book of poetry (20% off right now).