The world has ended: my
boyfriend doesn't want to fuck me. And
my cigarettes are a putrid smell that he
has wooed me past for years:

the champagne of my melancholy
and tantamounts my frustration
with a highlighter and I am screaming
and I am quoting myself with the
highest praise and everyone
is listening, "My boyfriend doesn't
want to fuck me. He can't stand my
cigarettes. He has wooed me and
begged me and thrown me against
all the walls in the buildings
that line the city streets. He
has torn out my skin with his
ivory white teeth and kissed me
till my lips bleed. He woke up
last night and forgot to fuck me."

The world ends, entropic till inert,

a wildfire serenades the Vaseline
that beautifies my kissers and
I am all terrible stares into
the mirror, wondering if and when
I failed to matter to the rise
and thinking that I haven't. The world
is quiet but for all the havoc
between the rubble of the lampposts
and the parking lots
and the pubs
and the liquor stores.

I wake up entirely alone
in my boyfriend's company
and I am a desert of a girl.

11/22/2007

Posted on 11/22/2007
Copyright © 2024 Cristy M.