I was 18 years old
When I figured out
I didn’t know how to love.
I spent many nights
awkwardly pressed against rugged bodies
in a bed made for one.
I should have felt safe in his arms,
I wanted to feel safe in his arms,
I wanted his arms to feel like home
But they felt like the hands of an author
Writing me into a story that I didn’t want to be in.
Maybe if I traded
Body after body
I’d find the one that causes my heart
To skip a beat and I’d finally understand
The love that keeps you up at night.
The live that causes you to binge in junk food
And tears
And scars you like a battle wound.
This love was foreign to me
I could not fathom a love vast as the cosmos
As deep as the ocean
So when he told me he thinks he’s falling
In love with me-
I was 18 years old
When the night swirled through her body
And mine and we ended up on her twin size bed.
Against the backdrop of trap music
and curiosity
Our lips met and the world shrank away.
Her fingers felt like my own
As she traced the marks and freckles
On my skin, I fell.
I fell into the ocean and touched the bottom of the Atlantic.
I took a rocket ship to the moon and back
And swam around Saturn’s rings.
I was 18 years old
When I figured out I don’t know how to love how everyone thinks I should love.
I don’t know how to love predetermined
I know how to love curled lips and delicate finder tips.
I know how to love eyes that look like
My own.
Because when I look into her eyes
Although I’m just renting
It feels like home.

How ironic that we write poetry with metaphors about the moon and sun the trees and waterfalls

But on an average night the best poets are sitting inside
Drunk on loneliness and alcohol much less romantic than cheap red wine
Who throw wood on the fire
Pour oil from the soil
Eat anything soaked in rum
Wishing it tasted like your skin after your run
But you ran
And they hide from the moon
And they hide from the sun

‘Yeah but cry me a river’

I’d drown in your sweat if I could

—  Maita C
Smoking Optimism

We go to a 24 hour Denny’s at the end of the night.
After they bring all of us waters,
I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
Mr. Darcy has been waiting for me; he’s leaning against one of the stalls.
There are daffodils poking out of his
pant pockets.
Lionel Richie sings through the speakers,
“You are the sun, you are the rain.”
I pull out my cigar case and set one off.
He smiles at me as I blow smoke into his face—
but he will not touch me.


this is weird.