Blue eyes are overrated.

I’d know, I have them.

—-

Once, I chiseled your eyes into a ceramic tile.

Glazed them that dark hue,

looked into them and felt all satisfied.

—-

I can kind of trust clay,

because it can’t chuckle

or raise its eyebrow to judge

or critique my punches and form

or keep me warm.

—-

Blue eyes lack purpose.

I’d know, he had them.

I never saved his gaze on my flash drive.

I never carved it into stone.

thetimeistudiedabroad:

I curl my toes against the white ceramic of the tub

and watch as the liquid dust propels off of my body.

It catches the rays of sunlight peeping through the blinds at my nakedness

and together they form a spectrum…

A spectrum of baby’s blood, agent orange, snot, and a black eye.

You are in the kitchen, making toast with my bread,

crunching and probably planning your exit.

And I know you’re torn, because I caught you crying.

I may have beaten them out of you, but tears are tears.

Tears are something that you can’t trade for my currency

And by heaven I swear that all you will ever beat out of me

is a spectrum.

I ask for a One Way ticket to you

When the conductor swings by

Though it’s clearly a lie.

The subtle twitch in my polite smile 

Tells it all, this is only a treat.

Strawberry cheesecake 

After a week of liverwurst.

But can’t I play a little?

Imagine I’ve no need for a ride back

To beating the sun to rise,

Dawning an apron,

Cashing my check,

And rubbing the hurt from my feet.

I ask for a one way ticket

To all I really care to be,

To what I know you want to see,

Me, lounging around in lingerie

All day

Tasting only cold beer and you

Because the taste of the words

“round trip”

Is bitter as hell.

That night I finally walked away from you.

The same night that shed unearthly light

And somehow your softened brain tissue whispered;

“Follow her, follow her.”

That night when I drained a shot of tequila

And told you to leave me alone.

You finally said “no.”

I still love the songs we used to sing

The old Charlie Daniel’s band hits

That Garth Brooks track from Hope Floats

Everything and anything Toby Keith wrote

About partying in Mexico.

I remember my hands caked in egg and breadcrumbs,

Yours in canned salmon and buttery crackers,

You said, “baby girl, let’s go to Cancun.”

I remember you never let me help you fry it all up

Because I was barely eye level with the countertop.

I didn’t mind, I was afraid of it anyways,

The stove, the crackle pop grease bubbles,

But I still loved the way it all smelled like fat.

I still love the simple nights on the porch

When you’d smoke a cigarette and tell me about work

About Gary and Tige and Mike and Gale,

The monikers of strangers I still remember.

Like I remember that old John Montgomery song,

The one where he sees the pretty girl

At the auction and tries to bid on her,

And she’s somehow okay with it, and

They fall in love.

I remember singing it while you drove me

Back, back, back to Connecticut,

Back to screaming fights and sleepless nights

Back to you hugging me tight and whispering

“Christmas is only three months away.”

“I still love the songs we used to sing,” I say to you,

And try not to crumble when you say “what songs?”

It’s bliss like this that usually leads

The monsters on,

Lets the nightmares pick up the scent

Of pleasure

And chase it from its damp and dingy cave.

And I ran from you as hard as my

Chicken legs would allow,

But I kind of knew from the start

Those circles wouldn’t get me far.

And you were there, holding me under

Your lazily unfocused microscope

With only the tip of your index finger,

Ignoring my wrigglings and sighs

And all the while, I was just wondering

Where you were going with all of this.

Then you decided to disagree with the odds

That hate my favor, and become my favor,

And ever since, I’ve been waiting

For the monsters to move their pawns.

I figured they’d be hiding out under your bed,

Waiting for my head to really settle on

your pillow.

I figured they’d be in the woods, hiding

Behind the boulder we’re leaning against.

I figured they’d be hiding inside of my chest,

Just waiting for you to fuck up

And forget my first name

So they could emerge and suck you dry.

But maybe they’re not coming.

Maybe they’re not coming at all.