I’m lying in bed on a Saturday,
life on hold again for another man,
thinking of how fulfilled I’d be if it were ever worth anything.
These men can all be alone,
taking the company of another for fun.
I always ache. I always want more.
When I draw, when I write, when my mind is idle,
a loop begins in my head.
I’m depressed. I’m depressed. I’m so depressed.
I’m too warm in bed and dehydrated.
Clothes need to be washed, floors swept,
but I’m paralyzed in wait.
Waiting for validation,
waiting for a meaningful life,
waiting for things that will never come.
I can only see myself unhappy.
I can only see myself insecure.
I can only see myself alone.
Her eyes are heavy from alcohol and drugs.
She looks over her shoulder and smiles at me,
knows I’ll be gone, both of us cold again soon.
The lace covering her body is a perk.
New Orleans ladies have outdone it again,
Climbing me, moaning. Shaking from cold, pleasure.
More time in December, February, March.
Holding her hand, not afraid to let it go.
It’s all the same to me. Accompanied… not.
But then, all that he seemed was awe-inspir’ng—
eyes unimaginable, curly brown hair.
Now loneliness replaced with longing, pining.
How do I manage to relinquish my time
so fearlessly to new coy lovers each month?
After all the aching, always fall in line.
These old boys, these young men, remember just each
feeling of pulling up skirt, lifting my shirt.
Masturbating to a memory, a peach.
Nicholas makes me want to be more, is more.
House clean, skin smooth, my mind wandering to him.
Eyes dim with sickness, my inner thighs still sore.
Grow out your fake nails,
burn out your lights, masturbate,
cut your hair, eat cake