Love · Sex · Writing

Pinpricks | Poems that Suck

You were drunk on fine spirits,
on the precipice of belligerence,
trapping me between your body
and the door - its knob in my back.

"What the fuck are you doing?"
I asked calmly cautious, but 
could see that your pupils
were pinpricks, even in the dim.

"Tell me all about it. Every 
little detail. I need to know
the who, what, why, how, when
of that stupid video."

And I realized I was being
mocked; for talking too much, 
for needing someone to share
stream of consciousness with.

It confirmed what I'd suspected
for so long; that I'm not human
to you - just a possession that 
you can molest whenever you want. 
Humor · Love · Mental Health

Tending Bar | Poems that Suck

Don't come to me if you
don't want a straight answer.

Don't come to me if you
want to be coddled.

Don't come to me if you
don't want practical advice.

Don't come to me if you
just want me to agree with you.

Don't come to me if you
can't take it raw. 

I'm not your fucking bartender, baby.
I'm not serving you a chaser after this shit.
Depression · Free Verse · Heartbreak · Love · Poem · Sex · Writing

Silence | Poems that Suck

Maybe I don't like the silence
 because it reminds me of an ex
  who used to disappear for days at
   a time, saying that the aliens had
    abducted him. 

Every time he'd reappear it was
 with some new girl, hanging off his
  dick - and I knew he'd slept with her
   so that he'd have a place to sleep, and 
     food to eat. 

I could never understand why
 he wouldn't come to me to ask
  for these things, knowing that 
   he'd never have to pay for them
    with sex. 

The last time he disappeared
 for months, turning up on the 
  opposite coast so that he could 
   "make it," but came back home with
     a pregnant fiancé.
Heartbreak · Love · Sex

Let’s Smash | Poems that Suck

I don't want love, not really. 
Not the contented domesticity of a
white wedding, a swollen pregnant belly,
a house in the suburbs or a white picket fence. 

None of the considerations and
compromises that leave you 
resentful, thinking about how
you're losing out on your best
fucking years as you brush your
teeth while your partner takes a piss.

No - what I want is, in comparison, 
hedonism. The blaze of passion, white
hot and unquenchable. To worship your
body with my mouth, my hands. 

I want to shiver under your touch, 
feel the desire of your gaze and
die the little death beneath you.

I want the romance of dancing in the 
kitchen, of falling asleep in your arms,
to hold your deepest secrets in confidence,
to know you better than anyone else. 

Then I want the drama. 
I want you to break my heart, 
to shatter it so that I can write
shitty poems for a lifetime.