Self

Oh, me; oh, my.

I.
Too much sugar for breakfast.
Jittery hands smoothing tangled hair,
thin lips parted in laughter that
twangs absently - an aluminum can,
if anything.
She thinks of the previous night,
two white pills to calm her nerves.
Will she ever be normal? 

 

II.
It's an old Honda, she knows. Burgundy,
with automatic seatbelts that cut at his
throat.
Every morning, the same stark, intellectual face
sipping a venti cappucino while he notices and
refuses to notice. 
 

It's a race to see who gets
pulled over first. Who gets ahead.
Who gets away. 

 

III.
Her first boyfriend,
a bisexual from New York,
kissed three other girls and two
boys while they were
going out.
She sees his face,
sometimes - light freckles,
dark hickeys - and wonders what
the hell she was thinking. 

 

IV.
Virgin lips are such a soft, sweet
thought, and how might it feel to
touch tongues with a philosopher rather
than a drag queen?