Poetry Dabbles XX

You’re only nice to me when you want to fuck.



Poetry Dabbles XIII

((Note: I took a poetry class in college and I just remembered all those poems I wrote still exist on my computer, so I’m going to start posting them from time to time. This is one where the prompt was to write in more of a prose style.)

White Picket Fences

I was driving the other day, I can’t recall the exact time, but it definitely was last week. . . I think. The road seemed familiar and distinct, again, I couldn’t recall why. The neighborhood made me feel like I belonged but I just couldn’t get out of my car and call any of these houses ‘home’.

But then it hit me.

This is where you used to live. The house on the corner, with the side yard that looked out onto the street and where that shooting happened that one time. . . I wasn’t there for that. Your best friend lives across the street, and his family still calls you family. I feel like a ghost in this part of town. Like there’s a threshold I can’t cross and I’m stuck on my side. You don’t live there anymore, I know this, but it feels like you still do and I can’t move on and can’t intrude on your life or the lives of your neighbors. 


Poetry Dabbles V

We met with a glance, a single nod of the head and eye contact.

We left that night with a wave and a small smile.

The next week was met with hugs and grins,

Like we had secrets to share with only each other.

The following days were moaned,

and made our bodies melt into your too-low-to-the-ground bed.

Now I wonder how long I can tolerate the silence,

when I want nothing more than to make you scream.