Saasan

For a guilt culture I sure feel a lot of shame but whatever See now— I’ll tell you a secret: I am completely, utterly, entirely, wholly, redundantly defenseless. “Waaaaht?!” you ask (or at least pretend you do. Humor me) “Clever Sarah?  Defenseless? Against me?” Of course.  Naturally. My poems reveal everything. Or don’t. But you, clever reader, ought be able to render me naked at a glance. Suppose I tell you “I am not a lesbian” the intelligent among you shall say “That is only what she wanted us to believe” and the wise shall say “That is only what she said&

He lay sprawled out on the carpet slowly tangling cords about his leg, writing love letters to a future butcher and burn victim.  He was soul-naked, an artist with a single color of paint profusely coating his clean laundry. He feigned he preferred his laundry lived-in. Secreting away carpet burns, he decided to paint over the newest ones on his leg, pretending she might see him naked (as if she’d ever talk to a butcher). That was him now.  A butcher. Incriminating blood on his laundry, all his thoughts before him naked, he tore her name into the carpet. He looked away from his leg as he covered it in paint. Such an unu

but then I suppose Hell is, too where on Earth does that leave us? Joy is just as hard to accept as sorrow in the presence of the other What a bastard, he didn't give her heart back when he was done with it But she was planning to regift it anyway-- sympathy due? I can't read anything better than books and faces are far beyond me

I hate you, but that's not significant (I still want to hear from you everyday) God, your face is stupid. You're fractured and pointless and you're never going to be happy. (I hate you for being happy, surface happy.) You're fucking scared on the inside-- which just means I can't hate you with perfect satisfaction But, I hate you anyway and I want to scream it, but only because you wouldn't care if I did. Damn you. I just want it to matter that you hurt me.

Of course I'm not in love with him. But what good is that to know? Armfuls of reasons never beat a teaspoon of wishful thinking I know I'm not in love with him His name is nothing more than a placeholder for my mad lib of desire-- But fact doesn't lessen the ache of fantasy, the throb of disappointment Perhaps this is why it's called a crush

I’d curse my creator if I had nothing but smog water to breathe What a patient thing you are (as if you could complain!) I wonder how small you feel I’m such a big thing, compared to you Do you want out of your water? do you feel how small your bowl is? And do you like me? do you remember me when I walk in the room? or is it just That Large Moving Thing you’re greeting when you swim over, face pressed against the glass little fins waving furiously Are you greeting? Are you hating That Big Threat or do you love the One That Brings Me Food? or are you simply begging for a larger bowl, for a better place to swim in

Oh God, but if only it would help I would cuddle her close to me nestle her into my arms, my lap and lay my cheek in her hair My breath near her ear, with hands encircling I would not apologize or forgive, or speak Oh God, if it would help I would match her rise and fall and make twins of our heartbeats She wouldn’t have to cry, but she would anyway because I would finally have told her I love her Oh God, but if only it would help