i’m backdating these because the day i wrote them i couldn’t pull my courage together to publish
I just want someone to love me.
You offer me a cigarette,
Like you haven’t been around addictive personalities before,
Who say they don’t smoke anymore.
You offer me beer,
Tell me to drink more,
Like you’ve never seen it turn bad.
I’m not sure how you made it out unscathed,
From your childhood,
From our childhood.
But I’m so damn jealous.
I’d love to be that stupid again.
When I saw your hands,
I didn’t think,
Wow what a weird finger,
Her hands look really messed up,
First I thought,
It looks like she hit her fingernail with a hammer, I wonder why she would be doing manual labor,
Then I thought, if she can be successful with hands that look like that,
Then I can too,
With my stubby, slightly twisted fingers and overly flat palms.
I can’t tell if I’m feeling better
Or if it’s just another day,
Or if it wasn’t that bad in the first place.
Sometimes I get mad at myself for still being myself.
Hide me, give me a place to rest, where I don’t have to worry or explain.
These are things you don’t realize you need until you leave them behind.
I just want a place to sit. And be okay. Please.
If that’s a person or a feeling. Please.
My mother told me she (who doesn’t drink) brought a bottle of fireball, a tupperware of strawberries (two packages for five dollars) and a gift card to a cook out.
No one else brought anything.
They had never had fireball.
She said, “it’s what white people bring to parties.”
Black cookout, did I mention there were two other white people there?
Oh god I love my mother.
We got a dryer.
My clothes smell like laundromat instead of mildew and cedar.
I still feel useless.