By: Emily Hunerwadel
Lipstick weighs down on my lips
by the fifth hour.
Glossy faces are pouty from
not from instruction or some sinister scheme,
like the branches that knocked
against your window pane.
People always like the character
that knocks off-kilter purposefully.
So here it goes:
Madison spent all of her time with plastic
between her fingertips,
Freddy was always drawing X’s
on the backs of his hands,
and no matter who I try,
I can’t shake the feeling of cigarette smoke
from the ends of my hair.
I’m avoiding the glances
of the dark-haired space-cadets
across the marshes of
spilt beer and vomit.
Still, maybe one day
our split-ends will tangle together,
and we’ll become some sort of spoiled
wondering around streetlights in
Or maybe I’ll be digging my heels
into the soft pink parts of his knees
until I turn the caps like radio knobs
to find the static
that shatters the glass-fragiled bones
in my ears.
Only then I’ll breathe into his head
like the hurricane gust he wants me to be:
“The best deeds I’ve ever done
were all a consequence
of unfortunate accidents,
and you were what I did in the in-between.”