I don’t think people love me.
They love versions of me I
have spun for them, versions
of me they have construed
in their minds.
The easy versions of me,
the easy parts of me to love.
Carl Sagan again. My life is revolving around his words. (My edits, not my pictures, but please don’t remove credit)
Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed.
She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to.
She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three.
Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap.
Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
You say: I dated her a while back.
You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
You say: She was younger than me.
You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.
You say: It’s nothing now.
You don’t say: But it was everything then.
to buy a carton off eggs and so when the cashier told
me that my eyes reminded him of the ocean, i asked
if he’s ever drowned in his own sadness, he said my
total was $1.89 and that he didn’t know what i meant,
i payed in quarters and told him i was an Art major,
i told him my boyfriend was a musician and we were
saving up for an apartment in the city and how i’d
use the walls as canvases and how he’d play his
piano on Sunday mornings when the rain tasted like
salt, and i told him that i had my first art opening in
three weeks and he should stop by and i’d introduce
him to this friend i had named Lolita who was really
good in bed, he thought i was insane and i wonder
if he knew how many times i’ve cried in the shower
with my make up smeared and my eyes swollen shut,
he said “yeah, yeah, sounds good, have a nice day”
and i wonder if he’ll ever know i wanted to really be
a poet and that’s why when some man in the parking
lot asked if i had a lighter, i dropped my eggs while
stumbling to find one, and cried on the way home