The problem with
calling yourself the
muse of a girl
with daddy issues,
and a habit of
using men's bodies
to masturbate with is
that the love may
be fabricated, and
when she's used
you up and the well
of inspiration has
run dry, you'll be
thrown away like a
shitty diaper.
Trash | Poems that Suck
Who the fuck
are you anyway,
that my blood
should turn from
rust to fire
at the mere
closeness of you?
And who the fuck
am I becoming
with the shiver
of every orgasm,
under the pressure
of your lips
on my own?
Who am I?
Because I seem
to have lost
track - seemed to
have forgotten that
I'm only a:
broken girl,
a fast girl,
a foul-mouthed girl.
Who the fuck
am I? Because
when I look
in your eye,
and see myself
reflected there,
I'm not trash
anymore.
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.
Muse | Poems that Suck
"I'm your muse," his slow smile met my hesitation, exhaling a billow of blue smoke into the space between us. "Yes," I allowed, raking my calloused fingers through his soft, fine hair. "I like it," he kissed me gently as only a shy lover could. Do you? I wondered if he understood what it meant to be such a thing. If he grasped how much of my emotional landscape is painted in a pallet of him, The brown of his hair, the blue of his eyes, passionate reds, bruise purples, and the black of abandonment. It's all fun and games until someone loses their heart.
Safe Harbor | Poems that Suck
You came to me,
pockets overflowing with
tamarind pods,
ripe figs,
celery root
and
prickly pears,
bravely holding me
for thirty seconds
"because that's how
long it takes for the
endorphins to be released."
No one's held me
that long before,
and I could've fell
to pieces in your arms
because you felt so safe.
It Was a Fucking Love Tap! | Poems that Suck
The last straw was when I slapped his ass while he fucked me slow. "You sick fuck," he rumbled in my ear. We laughed in the thick darkness with nothing but each other to cling to.
On Flesh | Poems that Suck
I want to write a poem on your body, scrawl all the words of my love and passion upon your flesh; my mouth the pen. I promise to write slowly, ensure proper punctuation and grammar, and to end with a stroke that brings you bliss.
Octo-Kitty | Poems that Suck
I'd joke and call you
my octopus because you'd
engulf me in a flurry of
limbs whenever I came near,
pulling me seductively toward
your mouth.
I was happy to be your
prey, to get lost in the
tangle of your tentacles - another
love blinded fool - I had no idea that
you'd feast on my soft innards, then
spit out
the bones
when you were through.
Call me a Psychic | Poems that Suck
We'll chance upon each other, some day or evening a long time from now. By then my heart will have scabbed over, but still the edges are tender. You'll be excited - "it's been so long!" - but I'll be full of dread, caution. I'll regard you coolly, just enough detachment to make you unsure, ill at ease. I'll make some cutting remark, veiled in subtlety, then excuse myself from your company. You'll mull the comment over, repeating it in your mind, puzzling together its meaning. And slowly, you'll reach the soul of it and know that I'm still bleeding. You'll watch me from across the room, and I'll know by its focused heat, But I'm too old and too tired to play the games of young girls. You won't see me feigning laughter or pretending to flirt with some random person. I'll simply be me, as even keeled and placid as you knew I was. It will remind you of those quiet moments we shared, tangled in each other, Doing nothing but marveling at the miracle of love, the wonder of eachother's breathing. You'll then be in touch, and I'll hesitate but answer; no sense of preservation. You'll apologize for it all and I'll give you a halfhearted, watery kinda smile. (Actions, of course, speak louder than words and I'm simply mirroring your past indifference.) You'll realize too late, like they all do, that you made a huge mistake. But it'll make no difference to me because you had broken something inside me That day, way back, when I stared out of the window, watching a squirrel as You stood above me and recited a litany of why you didn't want me. And maybe then you'll long for me the way I did those many months, The wind blowing through the hollow in your chest, whistling past the ragged edges. And then you'll understand, it dissolved that warm October as I sat in silence. You'll know it's too late for me, for you, for us. It's just now that you're catching up.
Empath’s Eye | Poems that Suck
"Look at me," he murmured. So I did, choosing his left eye over the right. Like I knew it would, the pupil dilated, blossoming under my steady gaze. There's never an option, I'm taken hostage by eyes and that's why I never look, see? Now I saw him, stripped bare before me, the scars raw on his flesh. Yet, he never blinked, never broke contact as I penetrated and saw it all. I admired his courage - I could never be that vulnerable - but also his stupidity. After all, he didn't know what kind of woman I might be or what I could do with his scars. Then again... maybe he just wanted to be seen.
