by Elysia Lucinda Smith
My mother calls them phases and maybe
that’s an accurate representation because
they’re lunar, edges of something, the kind
of scrambling you do drunk in the dark.
It’s a lot of being drunk in the dark.
I’m dying to discover myself and finally
be cool. I’m smoking. I’m smoking hot.
I’m a smoking gun. I went out one night
and suffered through talking because
I just wanted someone-anyone!-
to fucking kiss me.
The next day, I booty called Colin
and took Jay home and kissed Emily
and thought about kissing Jessica and
I know I’m not falling in love with anyone
but maybe just falling in love with touch?
What is it when I dry hump the rug and
watch porn and drink all the Elderflower
Liquor in the cabinet? What is it when I
let you make a home in the back of my throat?
The thing is: I’ve got it all figured. Finally
something to pass off as the truth.
I’m just wrapped up in movement, in fingers
wet hot small of my back smell like fir needles
poking out of the snow. Touch me and touch you
and it’s a special thing. It’s the only thing you
fucking have. Do you hear me?