I’m always flying solo so I own one helmet only.
I wear it all the time, even in the house. Boys
are just something I do when I am too bored to
cook up some commitment. Every now and then
I guess I eat out at some recommended relationship,
but all I end up with an empty pocket for a heart
and a stomach sick with disappointment. At home
I point a finger at my reflection, stupid girl.
You know they can’t keep up; why do you
keep trying for something that won’t make
you throw up every hope. When I am done,
I wipe off my frown with the back of my hand
and rinse regrets in the sink until they are
nothing but aches. I revise the receipts;
how much did this one cost me? and
drop them, like post-coital cigarettes,
into boxes, one per boy. What’s your name?
I don’t care. Each one is just a number.
Each box is a cave of memorabilia.
Menus of desires I pretend I had never tried.
Napkins with lip-stick smeared words
I pretend I didn’t want to say.
Tears by the bottle; corks of frustration.
Knives with dried resentment on the blades.
Plates with my pathetic optimistic stains.
Roses, once velvet, a collage of butterfly wings,
now crispy like a papier mache joke; they’re
just to remind me of my crimson failures.
I used to love on a whim. Love used to be take-away.
Now it is too difficult for a boy to get a reservation
(unless I have a hard-on which I must hide under the tablecloth).
And it’s getting expensive; how much more can I can afford?
My appetite has always been poor but now I’m rarely hungry.
Still, I guess I will keep eating out.
But only if someone else is paying.
Needs editing but it’s 4am and I am either going to sleep or to a club. Neither is appropriate for poetry-writing. Not that this has stopped me before. (Well, maybe the sleeping part.)