where the b()ys are poetry and prose about the boys i’ve loved (and lost) (the preview)
roxanne cubero
MOVEMENT ONE: THE FIRST april 15, 2017 (straddling lessons) MOVEMENT TWO: MY DEAREST october 1, 2016 ("there,") MOVEMENT THREE: MOONBOY april 1, (schoolwork) MOVEMENT FOUR: SAXOPHONE BOY may 3, 2017 (to the class of 2017)
"YOU WILL BURN AND YOU WILL BURN OUT; YOU WILL BE HEALED AND COME BACK AGAIN." fyodor dostoyevsky, the brothers karamazov
i find myself trapped between the boys i (think i) love and the girl i (know i) want to be but at the end of the day there will only be me the girl i am who has loved and lost who has died and resurrected june 7, 2017 11:21 pm sugar land, tx
MOVEMENT ONE: THE FIRST april 15, 2017 11:03 am sugar land, tx straddling lessons his thighs were so thick that even when pressed together my knees couldn't reach the ground (or whatever his fat ass was sitting on) when i straddled him but you are so soft not skinny per se but i think i would crush you if i ever tried to straddle you in such an intimate way for he has taught me to be hard as a football helmet he has taught me to be as ruthless and as heartless as a crusader to patch up broken bones and broken hearts alike with muddy bandages secure them together with the adhesive glitter snatched from under the cheerleaders' skirts and sweat from the foreheads of your fellow football players he taught me to abstain from anything less than glory to devour everything in sight that everything -- even people -- is my birthright he passed on the one lesson learned from his father: that success is built on not taking no for an answer (whether that be in the conference room or the bedroom) and from all of his lessons i have learned to stuff myself with flowers and books and music and poetry and dancing and films and dresses and shoes and memories and necklaces and bracelets and sandals and hats and records and perfumes and lipstick and fake happiness so much so that i have grown to be as fat as him so much so that i can't feel the permanent bruises on my my knees from his private bathroom lessons so i know that i am the size of a cherry blossom sapling but i feel like a looming sequoia so even if i were to lay myself gently on your lap my skirt caressing your blue jeans i am putting on you not only my thoughts and my dreams not only my fruits and my branches but the weeds i am trying to uproot but the burdens of all of the lessons i am trying to unlearn
MOVEMENT TWO: MY DEAREST october 1, 2016 12:37 pm stafford, tx "there," "there," she says, as she fixes his tie. he knows how to do so -- of course he does. but she can't help herself; it's his first day of work, and he let her make an elaborate breakfast in bed for him. she can’t help herself; she's proud of him. "there," she says, and he only smiles in return. his arms are tired; he's been adjusting this damn painting for the past thirty minutes, and he's positive that he's ghosted over this spot before. but he endures, if only it is to see her eyebrows furrow in concentration. "there," she says, pointing up the flights of stairs. they're at the base of montmartre, tiny pilgrims to the looming dome. they've been here before, as adolescents. (as strangers.) she wants to revisit the cafÊ and see the city of lights from god's point of view. they've been walking all day, up and down every hidden street in paris. their feet ache, but they are still full of wonder. he is more than a head taller than she is, yet she still dares him to race up the three hundred steps to the gates of heaven. before he can answer, she’s already on step twenty-two. (she skipped a few.) he looks up at her with star-filled adoration. "there," she whispers. his hands find the bare skin under her dress and he sets her epidermis aflame. she had only ever seen his hands folded reverently or playing his clarinet. but now, here they were, in the clandestine space of their eighteenth floor hotel room in a vaguely familiar french city. they've had too much wine. (it wasn't good.) she looked so radiant in the dim candlelight that he couldn't resist caressing the flame. his lips find her throat, this was new to her -- sure, she had been kissed before in this way -- but she only knew his lips to whisper prayers. here they were, cloaked by the night, fingers only reverent to each other, lips became pilgrims to the other's domain. but when the frenzy is over, they are reverent once more, no longer frazzled limbs and barely-there breaths. she is still unraveling from the pleasure. her lips are sore. even in her dreams, she never imagined a love like this. she finds herself in his shirt, buttons undone, flipping through the channels. the window is open, and the breeze glides over her warm body, the cold air ghosting over where his lips once were. this, she thinks to herself, is heaven. this, she thinks to herself, is pure ecstasy. "there," she says, quiet enough for just the two of them to hear. he smiles in return, he is aware of the meaning behind this silly little word. she slides the gold wedding band onto his finger. since the moment he proposed, she'd been counting down the months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds until this moment. "there," she says, buttoning his dress shirt, despite the fact that he is entirely capable of doing so. his hair is still wet. he has that boyish grin on his face. his bow tie is still undone. she tells him that she likes seeing him unbound. he kisses her in return. "there," she says solemnly, placing a single rose where his hands were folded. for her, losing people is an perpetually broken record, but she never thought this day would come so soon. "there," she says as she points towards the stack of projects. she's the first to answer his rhetorical remark. her gaze is not towards the tower of paper, but towards him. he doesn't notice. still, her skin has been set ablaze.
MOVEMENT THREE: MOONBOY april 1, 2017 12:19 AM sugar land, tx schoolwork it is nineteen minutes past midnight now i have yet to pry open mark twain’s chef d’œvre the same way that i imagine your hands on the inside of my thighs (your hands being my hands; my thighs, a book you’ve been dying to read) but the adventures of huckleberry finn isn’t on par with the likes of pride and prejudice and the notebook (and my imagination) i pull out my punnett squares and while figuring out the likelihood of red and white and pink rosettes i begin to wonder if the way your cheeks bloom like a summer rose when you laugh is a dominant or recessive trait i am calculating in my head me plus you plug in me (with my emptiness and my despair and my melancholy) plug in you (with your everything) we’d be the poster couple for eugenics
MOVEMENT FOUR: SAXOPHONE BOY may 3, 2017 6:43 pm montrose, tx to the class of 2017 the thing about us junior girls in regards to you senior boys is that there’s something dreamy about the way your presence is fleeting we daydream about your hands grasping your diploma grasping my thigh under my skirt we fantasize about your fingers with a shiny new class ring of sterling silver and ruby red saxophone fingers cello fingers fingers in places they shouldn’t be it is quite dreamy in a nightmarish way to think that your ghost will haunt our checkered halls this coming fall to think that you won’t be there to look at me on my way to french in the fleeting way that you do as if i am made of glass as if you saw someone there as if you were disappointed in the reflection staring back at you but that’s the most terrifying part: i know that there is a junior boy more than one, in fact that is willing to hold me and to have me more than willing, in fact but you look at me: trust me when i say that i feel everything all at once trust me when i say that i feel tectonic plates shift but the earth is just fine from where you are but when i speak his eyes glitter celestially and he looks at me as though i am the mona lisa to him i am a rose among the weeds i am a goddess among mortals
but here i am on my knees offering my severed heart on a silver platter and yet you have forsaken me so here’s to the class of 2017 and my aching heart raise three cheers for the graduating class of mixed signals and age gaps gaps so wide there is an ocean between us a single glance is a transatlantic tryst but when the fall comes (and it will inevitably come) you will only be a few miles away and i won’t think of you
roxanne cubero is a renaissance girl (dancer, writer, dreamer, cat lover) based in houston, texas. she is a rising senior dance major at the high school for performing and visual arts. furthermore, she lives with her parents and her feline companion, lily, and enjoys reading anthologies, collecting novelty mugs, watching audrey hepburn movies, and the color pink. the artwork (above) is by my dear friend and sweet angel, ilona altman. instagram: @rcxanne twitter: @roxannecubero youtube: roxanne cubero tumblr: rcsedarling.tumblr.com website: rcxanne.weebly.com i love you dreamily and tenderly.