The first boy I kissed smelled like burgers with the
onions picked off. The second boy I kissed tasted like
smoked cherries. I used to lick his lips
until they chapped. The things you miss if you
give up on something too early.

My mother once told me to stop dumping all those boys
or you’ll end up old and alone and you don’t want that do you?

Did I? They fit like bad sweaters, itchy at the collar,
tight at the sleeves. I scratched my back until I bled
from the pull of loose nails. Boys piled in the corners

like dirty underwear just in case I needed to go out. Alone,
I could walk barefoot through every crack, sit sewn in my
perfect-fit skin, breathe through the stoma, turn sunlight
into a green-grey joy. Beneath every stone I found an exhale.
My breath leaving like ribbons of caramel, that sweet loss.



Image taken with iPhone.
Words written on couch.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on celebrations, life changes, ice cream.

*note: All poems for the month of April are memoir poems in the form of lists

This entry was published on April 24, 2012 at 4:24 pm and is filed under April, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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