Iām meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and donāt stop reading till theyāve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, āHe was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?ā āYeah, yeah, I know.ā I say. āHeās great.ā
A boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks heās being original. āWe should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?ā I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, Iād like that, I think. But heās drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, āYou have a tattoo? Whatās it say?ā āmad to live?ā What, are you angry about living? Aw, Iām just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.ā
The next boy I kiss doesnāt read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.
I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears heās read every word Iāve put down. āYouāve got this voice thatās very modern, but also so classic.ā I choke on my water as he says, āI read you to fall asleep.ā I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal, and finds nothing about himself in it. āYou donāt really love me, do you?ā I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.
I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like āpresumptuouslyā and talk about āpost-modernist new wave.ā I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the āadvantages of using film and listening to records.ā But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.
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