sophomore poems

sophomore poems

m i​ ​was​ ​fascinated​ ​by​ ​the​ ​smoke​ ​coming​ ​out​ ​of​ ​her​ ​pen​ ​so​ ​i​ ​asked​ ​if​ ​i​ ​could​ ​try​ ​and​ ​then​ ​put​ ​it​ ​to my​ ​lips​ ​and​ ​when​ ​i​ ​breathed​ ​out​ ​there​ ​was​ ​smoke​ ​i started​ ​reading​ ​the​ ​iliad​ ​before​ ​while​ ​at​ ​the​ ​gym​ ​because​ ​i​ ​was​ ​feeling​ ​depressed​ ​and​ ​it​ ​was​ ​the only​ ​thing​ ​that​ ​didn’t​ ​sound​ ​sad​ ​to​ ​me​ ​we are​ ​sitting​ ​in​ ​your​ ​room.​ ​you're​ ​playing​ ​a​ ​videogame​ ​on​ ​the​ ​tv​ ​while​ ​talking​ ​to​ ​your​ ​girlfriend​ ​on the​ ​phone​ ​with​ ​the​ ​vodka​ ​in​ ​your​ ​mouth​ ​and​ ​it’s​ ​burning​ ​like​ ​ice,​ ​i’m​ ​just​ ​studying​ ​like​ ​i​ ​always am.​ ​at​ ​the​ ​dance​ ​the​ ​other​ ​night​ ​i fancied​ ​myself​ ​a​ ​writer,​ ​plath,​ ​or​ ​dickinson,​ ​or​ ​something,​ ​standing​ ​in​ ​black​ ​in​ ​my​ ​ripped​ ​tights and​ ​watching​ ​them​ ​dance​ ​she​ ​wasn’t​ ​there​ ​i​ ​think​ ​it’s​ ​better​ ​that​ ​she​ ​wasn’t​ ​i am​ ​going​ ​to​ ​be​ ​sitting​ ​at​ ​home​ ​in​ ​a​ ​lawn​ ​chair​ ​because​ ​we​ ​sold​ ​the​ ​couch​ ​and​ ​haven’t​ ​gotten​ ​to replacing​ ​it​ ​yet.​ ​i’m​ ​worried​ ​about​ ​the​ ​scholarships​ ​i​ ​applied​ ​for​ ​and​ ​i’m​ ​worried​ ​about​ ​the papers​ ​i’m​ ​going​ ​to​ ​have​ ​to​ ​write​ ​i​ ​have​ ​so​ ​many.​ ​i​ ​was lying​ ​dead​ ​in​ ​the​ ​bathtub​ ​before​ ​like​ ​i​ ​always​ ​am​ ​reading​ ​a​ ​book​ ​thinking​ ​of​ ​the​ ​man​ ​in​ ​the comic​ ​book​ ​store​ ​saying​ ​to​ ​the​ ​man​ ​who​ ​owns​ ​the​ ​store​ ​how​ ​wild​ ​his​ ​sister​ ​was​ ​for​ ​reading books​ ​in​ ​the​ ​tub​ ​and​ ​i​ ​smiled.​ ​i​ ​am​ ​always​ ​reading​ ​books​ ​in​ ​the​ ​tub.​ ​you​ ​were drunk​ ​the​ ​first​ ​time​ ​i​ ​really​ ​got​ ​into​ ​you​ ​and​ ​now​ ​you’re​ ​in​ ​all​ ​my​ ​poems.​ ​you​ ​got​ ​excited​ ​and reached​ ​across​ ​the​ ​table​ ​of​ ​this​ ​place​ ​that​ ​sells​ ​good​ ​gyros​ ​that’s​ ​loudest​ ​at​ ​two​ ​in​ ​the​ ​morning and​ ​smallest​ ​at​ ​two​ ​in​ ​the​ ​afternoon​ ​and​ ​held​ ​my​ ​hand​ ​in​ ​your​ ​fingers​ ​and​ ​it​ ​really​ ​fucked​ ​me​ ​up. i get​ ​so​ ​worried​ ​about​ ​the​ ​summer.​ ​i’m​ ​afraid​ ​to​ ​talk​ ​to​ ​people​ ​and​ ​i’m​ ​afraid​ ​to​ ​get​ ​a​ ​job​ ​i​ ​just want​ ​to​ ​write​ ​poems​ ​in​ ​my​ ​dad’s​ ​basement​ ​but​ ​god​ ​if​ ​i’m​ ​gonna​ ​spend​ ​the​ ​rest​ ​of​ ​my​ ​life​ ​writing poems​ ​in​ ​my​ ​dad’s​ ​basement​ ​when​ ​i​ ​could​ ​be​ ​doing​ ​that​ ​in​ ​paris.​ ​achilles seems​ ​relatable​ ​to​ ​me​ ​if​ ​only​ ​because​ ​we’re​ ​both​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​gay​ ​and​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​angry​ ​and​ ​kind​ ​of young.​ ​he’s​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​a​ ​bitch​ ​though​ ​but​ ​i​ ​only​ ​read​ ​the​ ​first​ ​five​ ​hundred​ ​lines​ ​so​ ​maybe​ ​he​ ​gets character​ ​development​ ​in​ ​the​ ​next​ ​fifteen​ ​thousand​ ​mama i’m​ ​always​ ​sitting​ ​around​ ​missing​ ​you.​ ​honey​ ​i’m​ ​always​ ​sitting​ ​around​ ​missing​ ​you​ ​from​ ​three feet​ ​away.​ ​dad​ ​i​ ​need​ ​to​ ​move​ ​out​ ​soon.​ ​dude​ ​i​ ​hope​ ​you​ ​win​ ​your​ ​game

the​ ​l​ ​word so​ ​much​ ​is​ ​always​ ​happening.​ ​the​ ​other​ ​day​ ​you​ ​wrote​ ​your​ ​third​ ​love​ ​song​ ​about​ ​her​ ​and thought​ ​you​ ​know​ ​what​ ​i’m​ ​just​ ​gonna​ ​do​ ​it​ ​i’m​ ​just​ ​gonna​ ​tell​ ​her​—​i​ ​will​ ​be​ ​the​ ​patroclus​ ​to​ ​her achilles—her​ ​sappho—​and​ ​then​ ​she​ ​said​ ​no.​ ​specifically​ ​she​ ​said​ ​“no​ ​akdjdch​ ​sorry​ ​if​ ​i​ ​were interested​ ​i​ ​wouldn't​ ​have​ ​roomed​ ​with​ ​you​ ​bc​ ​i​ ​kno​ ​that​ ​shit​ ​gets​ ​awkward”​ ​and​ ​also​ ​“thats fine.”​ ​and​ ​you​ ​laughed,​ ​said​ ​“hey​ ​it​ ​was​ ​worth​ ​a​ ​shot,”​ ​and​ ​watched​ ​a​ ​tear​ ​drop​ ​onto​ ​your computer​ ​keyboard.​ ​the​ ​letter​ ​“l.” you​ ​spent​ ​a​ ​day​ ​sitting​ ​on​ ​your​ ​friend’s​ ​couch​ ​with​ ​them​ ​sleeping​ ​at​ ​your​ ​side.​ ​you​ ​drew three​ ​pagefuls​ ​of​ ​drawings​ ​of​ ​yourself​ ​with​ ​facial​ ​hair​ ​and​ ​skirts​ ​because​ ​you​ ​liked​ ​the​ ​concept. you​ ​spent​ ​the​ ​day​ ​doing​ ​research​ ​on​ ​testosterone​ ​on​ ​your​ ​phone​ ​flip-flopping​ ​between​ ​happy​ ​and the​ ​memory​ ​of​ ​your​ ​father​ ​on​ ​the​ ​couch​ ​at​ ​your​ ​side​ ​calling​ ​caitlyn​ ​jenner​ ​gross​ ​while​ ​he pretended​ ​to​ ​gag.​ ​your​ ​friend​ ​helped​ ​you​ ​cut​ ​your​ ​hair.​ ​you​ ​were​ ​happy. you​ ​keep​ ​checking​ ​her​ ​snapchat.​ ​it’s​ ​dumb​ ​and​ ​it’s​ ​self-sabotage​ ​and​ ​it’s​ ​you​ ​lying​ ​in your​ ​friend’s​ ​bed​ ​a​ ​curled-up​ ​twenty-year-old​ ​fetus​ ​with​ ​your​ ​eyes​ ​dripping​ ​like​ ​gutters.​ ​it’s​ ​just you​ ​never​ ​liked​ ​anyone​ ​like​ ​that​ ​before.​ ​it’s​ ​just​ ​you​ ​thought​ ​she​ ​would​ ​say​ ​yes.​ ​it’s​ ​unjust.​ ​it​ ​is perfectly​ ​just​ ​as​ ​she​ ​had​ ​every​ ​right​ ​to​ ​say​ ​no.​ ​you​ ​still​ ​cry.​ ​it​ ​happened​ ​like​ ​this— you​ ​had​ ​a​ ​dream​ ​about​ ​her.​ ​two.​ ​in​ ​the​ ​first​ ​one,​ ​you​ ​were​ ​kissing​ ​her,​ ​she​ ​was​ ​kissing you,​ ​you​ ​were​ ​in​ ​your​ ​bed​ ​together​ ​and​ ​you​ ​were​ ​feverish.​ ​in​ ​the​ ​second​ ​one,​ ​she​ ​was​ ​kissing someone​ ​else,​ ​and​ ​god​ ​did​ ​the​ ​sounds​ ​she​ ​make​ ​sound​ ​good,​ ​and​ ​god​ ​did​ ​your​ ​dream​ ​self​ ​cry.​ ​so you​ ​had​ ​to​ ​try.​ ​having​ ​cut​ ​your​ ​hair,​ ​you​ ​looked​ ​in​ ​the​ ​mirror​ ​and​ ​saw​ ​a​ ​boy.​ ​you​ ​wondered​ ​what were​ ​you​ ​supposed​ ​to​ ​be.​ ​you​ ​wondered​ ​if​ ​she’d​ ​say​ ​yes​ ​to​ ​a​ ​you​ ​like​ ​this.​ ​you​ ​wondered​ ​about your​ ​father​ ​on​ ​the​ ​couch.

3​ ​poems​ ​called​ ​“after” after I​ ​shouldn't​ ​have​ ​cut​ ​if only​ ​‘cause​ ​my​ ​jeans​ ​are rubbing​ ​red​ ​into​ ​my thighs​ ​and​ ​dear​ ​lord does​ ​it​ ​sting I​ ​am​ ​pink after​ ​after for​ ​the​ ​next​ ​few​ ​weeks​ ​I'm​ ​stuck​ ​in long-sleeved​ ​shirts​ ​and catching

myself​ ​before​ ​I​ ​roll​ ​the​ ​sleeves and​ ​even​ ​when​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​alright​ ​I still​ ​can​ ​feel​ ​me​ ​burn after​ ​after​ ​after it's​ ​difficult​ ​to​ ​explain​ ​the​ ​feeling when​ ​I'm​ ​feeling​ ​fine​ ​so​ ​I​ ​get why​ ​other​ ​people​ ​do​ ​not understand​ ​depression I​ ​just​ ​wish there​ ​was​ ​a​ ​metaphor​ ​that properly​ ​described​ ​it​ ​so​ ​they​ ​could I​ ​think​ ​it'd​ ​make​ ​it​ ​easier​ ​if at​ ​the​ ​very​ ​least when​ ​I​ ​was crying​ ​in​ ​the​ ​store​ ​the​ ​cashier’d pat​ ​me​ ​on​ ​the​ ​hand​ ​and​ ​say “I​ ​get​ ​you​ ​man”​ ​then lovingly​ ​pass​ ​me​ ​my​ ​receipt DIARY​ ​ENTRY:​ ​PINK when​ ​you​ ​vape this cloud​ ​of​ ​smoke​ ​sprouts out​ ​like​ ​roses​ ​from​ ​your pen i​ ​mumble​ ​beautiful​ ​and you​ ​are​ ​smiling​ ​harder​ ​than i’ve​ ​ever​ ​seen​ ​you​ ​do draped​ ​in​ ​your​ ​strawberryscented​ ​clouds​ ​i​ ​breathe​ ​and taste​ ​and dream​ ​of​ ​feeling​ ​your mouth​ ​like​ ​this your​ ​fog​ ​your​ ​fog​ ​your​ ​fog i​ ​asked​ ​her​ ​out​ ​in text​ ​the​ ​other​ ​morning​ ​and​ ​she

wasn’t​ ​interested​ ​she​ ​said​ ​and now​ ​she’s​ ​left​ ​and i​ ​am sitting​ ​in​ ​my​ ​dorm​ ​room burning​ ​into​ ​pink endearing​ ​shit​ ​you​ ​leave​ ​in​ ​my​ ​room (enduring​ ​shit​ ​you​ ​leave​ ​in​ ​my​ ​room) top​ ​ra​m​en​ ​wrappers chocolate​ ​chip​ ​cookie​ ​cru​m​bs lost​ ​m​&(​m​'s) ideas​ ​for​ ​what​ ​i​ ​should​ ​draw ideas​ ​for​ ​what​ ​i​ ​should​ ​write good​ ​bad​ ​jokes receipts songs​ ​that​ ​get​ ​stuck​ ​in​ ​m​y​ ​head the​ ​echo​ ​of​ ​(you)r​ ​snickering your​ ​big​ ​shoes long​ ​sp(are)​ ​dyed​ ​hairs lost​ ​skin​ ​cells eraser​ ​rubbings re​m​nant(s​ ​o)f​ ​thoughtful​ ​conversation fun​ ​facts​ ​about​ ​space your​ ​phone your​ ​phone​ ​charger your​ ​laptop your​ ​laptop​ ​charger indents​ ​in​ ​your​ ​usual​ ​chair (good)-ass​​ ​m​e​m​ories m​e,​ ​affected sund—iary—ay​ ​so​ ​nice diary—(i)​ ​was​ ​in​ ​the​ ​car​ ​with​ ​dad​​ ​(just)​ ​now​ ​and​ ​it​ ​was​ ​so​ ​nice​ ​out​ ​i​ ​was wearing​ ​this​ ​white​ ​lace​ ​shirt​ ​without​ ​the​ ​sleeves​ ​i​ ​found​ ​in​ ​m​y​ ​old​ ​roo​m little​ ​crinkled​ ​but​ ​wearable​ ​and​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​was​ ​so​ ​war​m​ ​on​ ​m​y​ ​ar​m​s.

dear—diary—we​ ​went​ ​to​ ​the​ ​church​ ​this​ ​m​orning​ ​and​ ​i​ ​haven’t​ ​been​ ​in​ ​a​ ​while spent​ ​the​ ​whole​ ​service​ ​pulling​ ​at​ ​m​y​ ​knit​ ​scarf​ ​yarny​ ​tight​ ​around​ ​m​y​ ​neck​ ​m​ull​ ​m​ulling over​ ​ideas​ ​for​ ​co​m​ics​ ​i​ ​(want)ed​ ​to​ ​draw​ ​when​ ​i​ ​got​ ​out​ ​of​ ​that​ ​noose. oh—dear—diary—there​ ​was​ ​a​ ​new​ ​pastor​ ​(to)day​ ​with​ ​a​ ​suit​ ​that​ ​went​ ​shff​ ​and​ ​s​m​ooth over​ ​words​ ​like​ ​when​ ​you​ ​take​ ​foil​ ​candy​ ​wrappers​ ​and​ ​straighten​ ​the​m​ ​out with​ ​your​ ​fingers​ ​it’s​ ​been​ ​so​ ​long​ ​since​ ​you​ ​didn’t​ ​speak​ ​for​ ​god. da​m​n—oh—dear—diary—he​ ​was​ ​preaching​ ​about​ ​how​ ​you’re​ ​only​ ​supposed​ ​to date​ ​so​ ​you​ ​can​ ​find​ ​a​ ​spouse​ ​he​ ​called​ ​the​ ​whole​ ​debacle​ ​a​ ​tick​ ​ticking​ ​clock​ ​that​ ​runs​ ​out after​ ​approxi​m​ately​ ​four​ ​years​ ​after​ ​which​ ​sex​ ​is​ ​inescapable​ ​sin. da​m​n—oh—dear—​dad​​ ​was​ ​talking​ ​with​ ​m​e​ ​about​ ​it​ ​later​ ​and​ ​i​ ​pointed​ ​out the​ ​pastor’s​ ​logic​ ​fallacies​ ​and​ ​we​ ​got​ ​to​ ​talking​ ​about​ ​sex​ ​while​ ​the​ ​car​ ​went thru​mm​ing​ ​blurring​ ​down​ ​sky​ ​blue​ ​highway​ ​under​ ​light​ ​sun. oh—dear—white​ ​sun​ ​through​ ​the​ ​car​ ​window​ ​settled​ ​on​ ​m​e​ ​soft​ ​and​ ​i​ ​felt​ ​happy how​ ​i​ ​only​ ​get​ ​under​ ​this​ ​specific​ ​brand​ ​of​ ​weather​ ​dad​​ ​i​ ​wish​ ​it​ ​could​ ​be​ ​fifty degrees​ ​forever​ ​slight​ ​breeze​ ​feeling​ ​up​ ​m​y​ ​skin​ ​so​ ​lovely. “dear”—he​ ​called​​ ​m​e.​ ​and​ ​said​ ​you​ ​know​ ​in​ ​the​ ​future​ ​i​ ​don’t​ ​m​ind​ ​if​ ​you​ ​wanna be​ ​with​ ​so​m​eone​ ​of​ ​the​ ​sa​m​e​ ​sex​ ​(i)​ ​(just)​ ​(want)​ ​(you)​ ​to​ ​be​ ​happy​ ​and​ ​we​ ​were​ ​in​ ​the old​ ​car​ ​such​ ​sun​ ​and​ ​it​ ​was​ ​so​ ​nice​ ​i​ ​da​m​n​ ​near​ ​cried.

I I​ ​don’t​ ​know​ ​how​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​about​ ​my​ ​body.​ ​I​ ​always​ ​felt​ ​so​ ​out​ ​of​ ​place​ ​changing​ ​next​ ​to​ ​girls​ ​as they​ ​had​ ​this​ ​way​ ​of​ ​pulling​ ​on​ ​bras​ ​and​ ​lacy​ ​underwear​ ​over​ ​shoulders​ ​and​ ​thighs​ ​i​ ​never understood;​ ​I​ ​still​ ​feel​ ​alien​ ​sitting​ ​in​ ​class​ ​with​ ​these​ ​women​ ​who​ ​go​ ​rambling​ ​on​ ​about​ ​dating and​ ​boyfriends​ ​and​ ​sports​ ​bras​ ​and​ ​getting​ ​a​ ​degree​ ​in​ ​nursing;​ ​I​ ​just​ ​want​ ​to​ ​talk​ ​about​ ​the​ ​iliad or​ ​anime​ ​or​ ​the​ ​president​ ​of​ ​the​ ​united​ ​states.​ ​we​ ​visited​ ​mama’s​ ​grave​ ​this​ ​morning​ ​me​ ​and​ ​my sister​ ​and​ ​we​ ​ended​ ​up​ ​just​ ​standing​ ​there​ ​talking​ ​about​ ​our​ ​worst​ ​memories​ ​like​ ​we​ ​did​ ​last time.​ ​I’m​ ​depressed​ ​but​ ​at​ ​least​ ​I’m​ ​not​ ​like​ ​she​ ​was.​ ​I’m​ ​supposed​ ​to​ ​edit​ ​all​ ​these​ ​poems​ ​I wrote​ ​for​ ​class​ ​but​ ​they​ ​don’t​ ​feel​ ​like​ ​they’re​ ​applicable​ ​anymore;​ ​I​ ​just​ ​want​ ​to​ ​delete​ ​them​ ​and start​ ​over​ ​new.​ ​I​ ​don’t​ ​know​ ​how​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​about​ ​my​ ​body.​ ​I’m​ ​always​ ​stopping​ ​after​ ​I​ ​shower​ ​and looking​ ​in​ ​the​ ​mirror​ ​before​ ​I​ ​get​ ​dressed​ ​and​ ​considering​ ​myself.​ ​I​ ​pretend​ ​my​ ​chest​ ​is​ ​flat pulling​ ​the​ ​little​ ​that’s​ ​there​ ​off​ ​to​ ​the​ ​sides​ ​and​ ​imagining​ ​being​ ​born​ ​that​ ​way​ ​and​ ​wondering​ ​if dropping​ ​six​ ​thousand​ ​dollars​ ​would​ ​be​ ​worth​ ​having​ ​a​ ​ten​ ​degree​ ​chest.​ ​I​ ​imagine​ ​walking

around​ ​in​ ​just​ ​jean​ ​shorts​ ​in​ ​the​ ​summer​ ​on​ ​the​ ​street.​ ​I​ ​always​ ​told​ ​myself​ ​I’d​ ​get​ ​a​ ​tattoo​ ​or three​ ​when​ ​it​ ​felt​ ​right​ ​but​ ​I​ ​haven’t​ ​got​ ​the​ ​feeling​ ​yet.​ ​I​ ​told​ ​myself​ ​the​ ​same​ ​thing​ ​about​ ​getting my​ ​nose​ ​pierced​ ​and​ ​ended​ ​up​ ​doing​ ​it​ ​last​ ​year​ ​finally​ ​on​ ​a​ ​whim​ ​when​ ​I​ ​was​ ​out​ ​looking​ ​for somewhere​ ​in​ ​town​ ​to​ ​spend​ ​my​ ​birthday​ ​money.​ ​the​ ​other​ ​day​ ​I​ ​got​ ​five​ ​hundred​ ​dollars​ ​in scholarship​ ​money​ ​and​ ​I​ ​wonder​ ​where​ ​that’s​ ​going​ ​to​ ​go,​ ​how​ ​much​ ​of​ ​it​ ​will​ ​burn​ ​into groceries​ ​and​ ​socks​ ​and​ ​laceless​ ​underwear​ ​and​ ​textbooks.​ ​how​ ​much​ ​of​ ​it​ ​will​ ​go​ ​towards something​ ​that​ ​will​ ​have​ ​me​ ​smiling.​ ​what​ ​will​ ​have​ ​me​ ​smiling.​ ​I​ ​don’t​ ​know​ ​how​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​about my​ ​body.​ ​I​ ​have​ ​my​ ​mother’s​ ​legs,​ ​my​ ​nana’s​ ​cheekbones,​ ​my​ ​daddy’s​ ​thick​ ​curls.​ ​somehow​ ​I still​ ​ended​ ​up​ ​a​ ​poem-writing​ ​asexual​ ​liberal​ ​with​ ​gender​ ​dysphoria​ ​social​ ​anxiety​ ​and​ ​a​ ​platonic crush​ ​on​ ​one​ ​of​ ​her​ ​closest​ ​friends.​ ​I​ ​wonder​ ​where​ ​all​ ​that​ ​came​ ​from​ ​or​ ​if​ ​it’s​ ​just​ ​me.​ ​I​ ​wonder if​ ​my​ ​mother​ ​would​ ​be​ ​proud.

-cxxxxxxxx​ ​bxxxxx