Tag Archives: poem

Black Friday

(A poem found while searching through old documents.)

 

 

The crowds close in and

I cannot move

without elbowing my

way through a throng

of people on

cellphones, not

walking, just talking, shoving

me on accident as someone reaches

for a flash drive

marked down to 9.99.

 

They are too busy to

take time

and apologize.

Too close to

look down

at

my clothes.

Too close to

judge.

Too much of a stranger

to know me.

 

Close enough

to see the shine on

my face from both

sweat and excitement.

The rush of being unknown and

fighting for space,

makes me want a life

surrounded by others,

by lights, by music and

 

sidewalks.  A city.

The aisles, walled by freezers

and shelves, an alleyway

between busy streets to move

around the masses.

Although, everyone knows in

a real city, young women

like me

 

should not walk in alleyways.

Last week I read

an email, from my

sister, about a house

she rents out in Baltimore.

Small.

Fit for only

One.

An elderly woman.

 

My sister told me how

one night someone came in

the house and shot

the elderly woman to

steal all the money

that she did not have. How

 

she probably pleaded

for another minute –

life for the price of

a watch, a gold necklace,

even her

wedding ring.  How he,

maybe high, maybe

drunk, probably

just sad, could not

stop his finger

from pulling

 

the trigger.

Didn’t she know?

Everyone knows

that alleyways

are the safe places;

it is home you should fear.

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“Things I Regret” Poem

A poem I wrote for class a few semesters ago.  I figure this may be the closest it could be to being published.  They’re all still true, although I could definitely add more.

 

Things I Regret

 

Getting bangs.

 

Telling

my brother I do not love

him, even if

he really doesn’t love

anyone other than

himself.

 

Attempting to play any sport whatsoever.

 

Shots of tequila.

Throwing up in:

the trash can,

a fraternity sink, and

my toilet for 6 hours.

Shots of tequila.

 

Smoking Weed.

 

My first kiss: in the

hot tub, with the boy who made

my ninth grade heart flop

inside my chest.  With

the boy who was

secretly gay.

 

Not enjoying smoking weed.

 

Telling my ex boyfriend

“fuck you,” perfectly timed

or not.

 

My economics minor.

Supply, demand, profits, confusion.

There is a reason

 I am an English major. 

 

Becoming a bitch and feeling like it fits.

 

Sleeping with numbers

2, 3, 6, 7, and 8.

Because that is all they are,

and that is all I was.

A number.

 

Not sleeping with Chris Dooley,

the beautiful Irishman from camp

 

Believing,

“I was just about to text you”

and “Don’t worry, I won’t

tell anyone.” Hearing

his teammates whisper,

“Was she good?” when I

walked past his table, but

never stopping

to say anything.

 

Feeling too bad to deny

whatever they wanted.  Not wanting to

make anyone mad.  Saying yes,

when I wanted to say no.

 

Flipping off my dad, even though

it was really meant for my brother,

it still ruined Easter.

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