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For Isaac
Delicate Rejection
Wishes
Cigarette Relationships


For Isaac
Eight rubber bracelets
bedeck my left wrist.
On my right,
my plastic star bracelet circles first, then
my name in silver letters on a black band.
Henna tattoos the back of my hand
calling attention to my favorite ring.
Finally, your name in blue ink
brands the pale inside of my arm.
After scribbling it on last night,
you joked about owning me;
making me do whatever you wanted.

Little do you know, I'd do it gladly.
The sexual innuendo was heavy, but
that's cool, considering I've been
lusting after you for
a year and a half.

You're way too gorgeous for your own good.


Delicate Rejection
In grey-blue and denim,
auburn hair in a bun
sloppily stuck through with a gnawed pencil,
rectangular tortoiseshell glasses
perched on the bridge of her nose,
she sits languidly at attention,
purple pen hovering over her notebook,
poised to record the intricacies
of King Henry VIII's sex life.

She is casually sexy, infinitely nonchalant,
ingoring me in all her splendid grace.
I would strive to capture her delicately,
but she (very kindly)
does not deign to acknowledge my existance.


Wishes
I wake up with sleep in my eyes, crumpled clothes, and a sour taste in my mouth from not having brushed my teeth after tumbling into bed at 6 AM, having spent the whole night walking in circles with you.

We met with a kiss in the December night, swung on the swings in my elementary school playground, and planned our future in the idealistic way only two teenagers in love can. We giggled and kissed on the cold picnic tables hidden in shadow beneath the pavilion. You pulled me into an embrace wrapped in your soft leather jacket and I buried my face into the warmth of your shoulder. In inhaling your scent (a mix of Head & Shoulders, Old Spice, and something inexplicably male, indefinably you), I was comforted. It's nice loving, being loved, having someone to spin grandiose dreams with.

And when we moved out into the clear night, meandering in a slow round of the familiar neighborhood streets, spied upon by millions of pinpricked stars, all that really mattered were our kiss-punctuated sentences, our adolescent dreams, and our thousand-word glances.


Cigarette Relationships
We're sitting on the steps outside my school, and I'm wondering why I do this. Boy follows boy, each discarded like a used condom. They've all been plain physical gratification, worth a few laughs, but nothing more. That more is what I'm looking for, but it doesn't seem to exist.

I stare at the ember of my cigarette, watching the paper burn slowly. I always do this right before I leave: take him here, smoke a last cigarette before exchanging a last kiss on the cold concrete steps, then run away from this mess I keep getting myself into.

My cigarette is nearly out, as is this quote-unquote relationship. I drag one last time on this final cigarette and stand up before flicking it away into the dim parking lot. Bending down, I kiss you briefly on the lips.

"Honestly," I say, "It's not you; it's me."

I'm glad this cliché line is received in silence. Really, though, it's the only true thing I can say. The hurt look in your eyes, however, tells me you don't understand. I won't subject you to a lengthy explanation involving my dad's parenting failures, nor will I tell you that I'm still in love with my first real boyfriend---the one who dumped me after I got drunk at a party and fucked his best friend---and therefore, cannot give you an explanation to help you understand. For that, I am sorry. This is the only thing I feel remorse for, at times like these. I don't like breaking hearts, even if my own is still on the mend.

I turn to face the parking lot and start walking. I rake my hands through hair he used to smell when he thought I wouldn't notice, shuffle through the change in my pocket to see if I have the money for the cigarettes he hated, and fumble for my iPod filled with the music we loved. Sifting tinnily through the tiny earbuds is the song he never knew was ours, and the tears I refuse to shed for him sting my eyes as I walk home.



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