Poems About Boys

Working through things from past and present relationships.

[boysandpoems]

Entering your hugs was like being voluntold into a straight jacket.

[boysandpoems]

Bus stop Innocuous

So. Rainy out, eh? Yes! Seems to be nonstop. Yah for sure haha.

Hey! Hey! Nicer weather, eh? Yeah, finally! Been waiting to get outside. Yeah, me too! Have a good day. You too.

Hey! Hey! Been a while.  Yeah! Just got back. Cool! For long? Should be! Have you been here long? [And on.]

Heyy! Hey! How's it today? Pretty good, how about you? Pretty good, yah! Have a good weekend? [And on.] Hey! Hey! [And on.]

[boysandpoems]

Words don't fit this.

I didn't want But I couldn't make Being weak is I'm not good That's why.

[boysandpoems]

Looking at you

makes my organs swell and block my lungs

[boysandpoems]

All that matters is that I express myself.                                                                                                Wrong. Poetry is useless without you to listen to my other thoughts.                                                                                                Wrong. But it damn well feels like it.

[boysandpoems]

it should be an obvious truth that you cannot hold hands with a ghost

[boysandpoems]

It's whaddoido? filling up my life with girly junk-- novels, I mean, but girly is good and not junk, and I promise you, Austen, I will defend girl-drama, free of men (like I am)--only, these girls have ambition. I am filled with my own drama of procrastination and entertainment and work, new thing. It's whaddoido? without you to ask. Well, clearly, just carry on, get the work done pretend to ambition

but whaddoido? it's not working I am waiting, a waiter, an empty vase, not a girl at all, not the kind of girl I believe in. That I turn on, switched like a light, when you are here.

[boysandpoems]

When you loved me, we grabbed at the world and I leapt-- my heart leapt.

__________________________________________________________

My fingers are numbed by the  deep freeze between our bodies. The world slips out.

I fall from the sky, from the bed, through the ground. I rise, living and dead each day and think I leave my heart           turned lonely into the corner of a coffin buried shallow           but I always find it stow-away in my back pocket, fresh and bloody. _______________ This is how things were on September 18th, 2012.

[boysandpoems]

the city wakes up and i've been awake a while wondering, just curious, about why i prefer hurting myself to think of you than helping myself by writing papers;

however, those are now thoughts for another night. __________ This is how things were on March 9th, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

Regression

sleeping with the nightlight--you know it's on, even turned away, facing the shapes of wolves on the wall, you know it's on. it's just as much a declaration that there are monsters, that we need protection from those nightmares under the bed, the ones that nip at our heels that herd us like skittish sheep towards those freudian shadows we deny-- as it is our assurance that there are no monsters here

for now.

and you: you glow in me, like that little nightlight, only, realizing that it was your light casting those shadows of wolves on my wall; when you faded I switched you off, willing myself to be only half-afraid of the dark, to accept the shadows moving around in my sleep, to dream of the glow with a vague recollection of the unease of monsters. why did you replace the bulb, when I was just beginning to trust sleeping alone, again...

_____________ This is how things were on February 28th, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

On the plus side...

I'm not as fat as I think I am, and he doesn't get to experience how my period-boobs are now my real boobs. Yes! ______________ This is how things were in mid-February, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

Not a third

there’s that element to being fooled— yes, dear, that’s the burning point—no, dear, I won’t be upset with rusting consolation, no placement (above, beside, below)— and yes, dear, I’m an alloy of self-denial. ____________ This is how things were in mid-February, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

xix

i kept picking at the scab--- because if it can't heal, it can't scar, and I can deny any blatant, bludgeoned thing ever got past my few defences.

it's never out-of-sight/out-of-mind because it itches more under a  band-aid solution, an alcoholic solution never numbs: it burns the wound; i'm not ready to focus on treatment.

  ____________ This is how things were mid-February, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

i'm listening to /wild horses/ on repeat

my heart is still keeping company; ice-boxing your beers hearing: knowing it’s nixed from your list to rouse cheers, sneering: wanting to see you drowning your fears and waiting, at your liver, to chill: drops of ice-nine, whispers dropped: darling, dear.

_______ This is how things were mid-February, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

Dear B-------,

I think all I have left of you is your chapstick, but I’ll take what I can get, and the chapstick, perhaps, is more useful.

  ___________

This is how things were mid-February, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

window shopping before V-day

this isn’t love—it’s not even an inhealthy obsession. it's not an incapacitating desire that threatens my livelihood (rather, my livelihood threatens it), it’s not even a full-blown craving… it’s nothing like the dagger that Juliet last loves, and it’s not a lurching zombie-breakup-love, clinging to everything

            it’s lost.

but… hell. it would be easier to accept a trope and dramatically fall to the floor of the stage, wailing for your presence than to wait and ache dully—with a small part of me, that, being just small enough, infiltrates every part. this can’t be love—it’s too early and based on too little, but if love can be a chocolate heart, this certainly is a chip off the block, and I’m tasting after what I can’t get yet— it’s not love, but a window-shopper’s smile-twisted desire that she really has to acknowledge at the barrier of glass.

_____________

This is how things were in early February, 2010.

[boysandpoems]

Sloth

Slow, so slow it hurts that I can’t move— I’m a sloth, for want of you— this is restraint— when my bed’s soft blankets are chains (not caresses nomatter how I layer them with sensations of you)… slow… so slow, it’s the pain of weight, and I’ve done slow repetitions, am so out of shape— out of my shape— your shadow with mine makes a multi-armed figure, so… unfamiliar to me (where is my shape? Missing?  It’s certainly not in your photographs… where is my body… missing? The muscles work amiss— this slowness, sloth—no, this isn’t bliss, it’s something else, like a stretch gone wrong

and this, just from missing you? I’m unpunctual, proof I can neither more nor less be affected (getting nowhere)

  ____________

This is how things were on February 5th, 2010.