Girls Like That

I said I like my girls to taste of cinnamon and broken glass, ground fine and spread with quill-tipped feathers. Sometimes they smell of bike grease and
academia, parchment

papering their fancy bones. I break things but I don’t mean to. Big hands, small heart. There is a monster at this dinner table and it’s not the dog
biting my ankle

for the tiniest scraps of organ meat. Sometimes being alone is the tastiest thing, dipped in radio active butter and salted in microwaved dreams. You can eat it off the knife if
you’ve got the honey.

He said he likes his girls to hemorrhage love past their better judgement. (I stole that line. I told him I would. He didn’t say okay, but he didn’t say
no either.).

I said I’ve had enough blood staining the sheets. My wrists are lined with loops of hair tied into friendship bracelets. If I was a superhero, they’d be bracelets of

Instead, they’re heavy as sins. I scrub them with pink salt and crushed rosemary when I remember but lifting my wrist to write this poem is

My recipe calls for a sugar-spun girl with button eyes and no one’s body parts in the mix. All he has is sweetmeats in waxed paper. Tie it up tight, I say.
Who’s to know?



Image taken with iPhone outside
Words written at home
Time Taken 10ish minutes?
Brain on loneliness, travel, flight, email poems

This entry was published on March 3, 2012 at 7:05 pm and is filed under March, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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