trip to gyno
first time with gyno and she threatens me herpes my discomfort is sure sign of ill asks me hands deep about the last guy was there protection? any promise? what was his name?
forced smile of a sinner ache forgiveness break confession tell her
his name was Irrelevant. let not your breath linger hesitant, here.
Her eyes crucified this harlot her shaking hands spoke of revulsion so hot I turned scarlet, her lips parted
I know you want to kiss a lot of frogs to find Prince Charming,
But you shouldn’t go much further than kissing, you know.
first time at gyno threatens me STD when I had only infection a promise I will heal you baptismal not expose trust to stark white
sheets or stone these soft parts that you bared and cared.
I’ve kissed sixty-eight frogs with no names no faces sixty-six men and two women who i forget but the way her eyes parted each time I stopped then started trembling trying to defend the parting of my legs and I’m like look I’m not the ideal vision of a stark white virgin trying each night to fit in lace binding so skin-tight it will take your breath away.
Tell her that women looking for Prince Charming’s hardened arm and shoulder sink beneath on raw knees and pray for Him to be their Savior.
Tell her you don’t starve yourself for skin tight, for this binding to fit.
tell her with shake and with tremble
so you convince yourself you can forget.
man at starbucks
The man at Starbucks reads his bible like a palm.
Reads it out, under his breath, recites its harmony and crushes scripture with stern brow
focusing hard on each word drinking it in like latte caramel, latte vanilla, drinks it in
before it has cooled, he traces ink like life line and love line but he
comes to the end too soon.
He is beautiful.
If I could
I would sit across from him grasp his brown leather-bound bible between my palms and rip out conjecture
rip out doubt
rip out each page already falling out from this
brown leather- bound
clench myself tight around each scrawled note he asks the book why
because I want to shade him or perhaps I wish to
save him from why some pages fall out while others tightly bind in
from the questions spread underneath his hands cancer
crinkling his forehead from each name’s acrid iron taste
he is engulfed in earth tone and grown hot
from the curves of a god like rapture like
me; knelt nearby with my black ink skirt dripping down
he tells me Righteousness. I have skipped class today to come sit
by the man at Starbucks who reads my face like a psalm
to feel his eyes burn me beg me
Help, for I am parched.
This has ended too soon.
I caught you once,
killing a squirrel in our back yard with a rock.
Your 8-year-old body shivering, illuminated.
Through tears, you told me you loved it.
I assumed you meant the squirrel.
Even after I watched the news—
clips of a 10 gallon blue vat being carried out of your building,
DRUNK POEM POST TWO GLASSES OF WINE AND NO DINNER
Tonight, everything I say makes so much sense
like YOU KNOW WHAT? God is a hangover.
Religion is the shot glass. You are the toast I say
before every stiff drink. Tonight, everything I say
is so so articulate like baby boy you could be but
you aren’t here face now kiss me won’t you won’t
you won’t. Tonight, I flip my hair from one side
of my skull to the other and I feel like a porn star.
Your mouth is a soap opera. Your mouth is my
favorite flavor. Your mouth is a goddamn theme park
and most days, I would be content just watching
words get on and off the rides. I am tall enough.
I am tall enough. You are everything I have
ever wanted. You are HA HA you’re like
so funny. You make me so thirsty. You make
my head spin. Maybe I just need some water.
Maybe I just need to go to sleep.
- Sierra DeMulder
If I had told someone I was guaranteed to dig myself into a hole
and be unable to climb out this is what I might have said:
This is unexplainable, lassoed in like bucking cattle—heart
racing down the track for the long distance meter and I decided
I wanted all his attention, to dig deeper into…
Must I love you by letting go?
I’d rather love you and let it _____.
She is lost walking around and she’s lost her sound and she’s losing her ground but can you tell me now why anyone would want to be found?
She is searching for gold while wearing tears and holes into her baby blue soles, fucking men so damn old she’s breaking the parental mold- and all for a little gold.
I don’t want to see plaid anymore because it bores me to tears.
I don’t want to see skinny pants on skinny men with waif-like dreams and an anorexic kind of love because they don’t do anything to help me grow and they take and take and take- -wake me when you’ve gained a weight to you, thanks.
She is nothing more than an illusion and dirty tears hitting dirty ceramic, jeans at the knees worn right through, knees burned red and sore because she needs the money and when you spend all day on your knees- cleaning, fucking, sucking- you would wear a little hole through each pants leg too.
Baby’s a lost cause, something we would have laughed at when we were young.
Baby’s dabbling in ice cream and wooden tabletops and scorched asphalt- Show me a mirror, Baby says, and I won’t even recognize myself-
how about this? Recognize the fight between the lines- something- hypnotized and ripped and eyes that gripped my thighs and dragged me by the legs each time, yanking me down- What did he want from me? I couldn’t tell you.
He wants, and wants, and every damn week or so ding brr zing a little reminder that he still wants, no, he still wants to be smog and choke me with his tight fingers- fine. Choke me to a black and blue-
I miss you. Baby cries, I see you. I kind of, felt, you- were something else to me but no- do intend for this to be
don’t drag me flip me upside down if you don’t have the optics to right me back up.
When he asks me, I lie. I lie through the grains in my teeth.
When he asks me, I laugh. I laugh so I can throw some stones.
He doesn’t laugh. He’s stuck up and he’s broken. But I, I laugh.
I have a flip side rip tide silver bracket on my key-chain, I’m music’s slide a guitar’s glide with a fucked up kind of pride and, I am so done with repeats.
I’m her worn out laces and I’m rusted braces ripping soft gums and races every color every game I am, chasers that she begs him to buy her, faces he puts on to please her, but nothing, that she begs from him really feels like it hits home.
She is begging, please.
When boys attack for the second time, When boys leave for the second time, When boys lie for the second time, and my ears glaze over damn my eyes that hear a melody instead of the broken notes they do produce, tears. Tears like One Thousand White Women who had no choice but to marry in fear, even if they fell in love. Or something.
They were afraid, they had no choice, they didn’t know.
They had no control over their bodies. They wanted to run.