First date in three parts

I.
Naked in front of the mirror, white
dimpled body caught
blank in lamplight.
eyes like telescopes
inspect every seam.

II.
I am close to adding my vomit
to the gunk that holds
the sidewalk together. Instead,
I nibble at the end of my tongue
pulling off tastebuds like stickers.

III.
It is no longer about me.
Blue corduroy over curve
of his legs, like he’s always holding
an apple between his knees.

Drink up

His arms are wound around my throat like a winter scarf.
Abrasive as coarse wool, bits of him try to sneak through
my lips like stray fibers. Mouth not built to barricade,
eventually cheeks are filled to roundness – two small
plums, and a snakeskin teasing my tonsils.
The next morning there are thumbprints where evidence
is not collected. All I can find of him are the pieces
caught between my teeth.

Personal Poetry

One of my past creative writing teachers always made the distinction between personal poetry and public poetry – the former is usually not very good, but a lot of times it’s something that is necessary in order to get stuff out. I don’t really ever post the personal poetry I write on here, because for the most part it’s not very good. But I think sometimes it is good to put that out there, if not just as a means to work through stuff.

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