Thursday, September 20, 2012

not real.

i felt his poetry
as he sauntered into the room
disguised in a tattered t-shirt
and acid-washed jeans:
it took me by surprise
how ugly they were.

rhythm but not rhyme from
his electric hair and
ink-stained skin and
dirty fingernails
drum - drum - drumming
against the side of his arm.

i clawed at my insecurities
pouting my lips and
flipping my hair and
sticking my chest out
but i was invisible
or he was immune.

it was not real love,
i told myself for
the third, tenth, twentieth time.
because real love is flannel
and wool socks and a cup of
hot coffee on a sunday morning.

it was not real sex,
i assured my aching body
one last time
because real sex is salt
and breathlessness and teeth
burrowing into my skin.

this is something else.
something that covers,
encases, weighs
heavy on me although
i mostly can't say what it is,
only what it isn't.


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