The Cute-Awkward Dates

Our sweaty palms

hold each others tightly,

while my converse

stick to the soda and

butter-covered floor.

I think I can hear

your heart racing,

I wonder if you can hear mine

racing in my chest.

My mind races

and my heart picks up speed

when you glance at me.

Though an action film

plays in front of us,

I can't keep my eyes off of you

and the way your eyes look

as they'd dart around the screen,

absorbing every detail.

You glance at me

every once in a while,

as if checking to make sure

I was still there.

A small smile

colors your face

when I'm still there.

We both reach

into the popcorn bucket

at the same time,

our fingers brushing

causing our simultaneous blushes

and burst of giggles

at the cliche,

as we're shushed by the lady

behind us.

Every date feels like the first with you.

Comments

Unfixable

I always thought my heart would be mended with a tight enough hug from a guy who holds my heart. I've hugged every guy who has even touched my heart, hugged them so tightly I may have broken a bone or two of theirs. But my heart is still broken. They can't fix me...

Pity For Those Who Don't Write

There are people who don't have pens randomly hidden in every room, every jacket, every purse finding them in the strangest of places like under your pillow, by the sink, in an empty bowl in the kitchen cabinet, sometimes even in a shoe for the spontaneous ideas that must be written down at once. There are people who don't wake up in the middle of the night, struck with inspiration, and stay up the rest of the night, writing their hearts out. There are people who don't have random lines, that make little sense -except to the writer- written on their hand. There are people who don't have their characters on paper haunting them. Butting into every thought they have, until the writer finished writing their story. There are people who get sleep every single night with no thoughts of imaginary worlds sprouting in their heads, keeping them awake. They have no push from that magnificent imaginary word to stay up all night writing about the com...

Kavanaugh Catastrophe

Bent over a sink fistful of my hair, bruise marring my face. "It was consensual," he said. "We had fun," he said. Fingers bruised my thigh, gripping me tight so I couldn't move. Tears falling into the sink as he violated me, took my virginity in the most vile way imaginable. The mirror showed a girl dying on the inside for the sole purpose of some guy getting off- damn the consequences. Didn't tell anyone. Who would believe a loner over the southern gentleman? (he wasn't so gentle) But it happened. And finally I'm able to speak up and speak out against the sexual assaults that plague the media and society as people condemn the victim. "It was her fault." "She should have said something." Nobody believes a victim- the accusation is swept under a rug. But that can't happen if the assailant is in public eye. Everyone can hear it- It can't be swept under the rug anymore. -Don...

Rewriting The Stars

Search This Blog