1. His breath is heavy in my ear when he pants out, “Is it weird that it the way you string words together turns me on?” I offer him a flash of my teeth. It resembles a grimace more than a smile. “I can’t help it,” he continues, as he leans in closer. With his lips against my lobe he says, “What do I have to do to get a poem? Do I have to be better or worse than all the others?” I take his hand, put it in-between my thighs, and say, “We’ll see.”
2. The first time I wrote about rejection, the subject of the poem read it. He spent a day crouched around a computer with all of his, trying to find pieces of him in my vague statements. Later, one of his friends said to me, “The hill totally represented you not being able to get him, right?” I looked into his gleaming eyes. “No. That was just a poem about a hill.”
3. I hated the way he tasted but I never had the courage to tell him. I just wrote one-liners in my journal every time he kissed me and told myself I’d leave the next time he put his hand on my thigh. I didn’t. Just wrote a piece of prose about the dirt between his fingers and his wet dog smell. Now that I have finally run away, all I’m left with are pages of: “Hot breath. Hoarse voice. Heavy tongue.” “Tastes like margarine and desperation.” “Drips patronization and self-superiority.” “Screw your gin soaked teeth.”
4. Girl with the hungry desire for everything you see, I’ve thought about you almost every night this week. Girl with the hair that a world could live in, the eyes full of spitfire, and the mouth pouring sunshine, I’m writing you metaphors to be your friend. I know I can’t capture you in words. I know you’ve got golden hairs sprouting from your freckled arms and unruly black twists in-between your thighs. I know that you are flawed. I’m writing you metaphors to tell you that all you contain-cracked and whole-makes me want to spin out of control.
5. The poet is not a poem. The poet contains poems. As well as flowers. Waterfalls. Metaphors. And the ability to make light out of caves of darkness. Do not look at the poet as anything but a craftsman. A magician. Someone making something out of nothing. The poet is not a poem. Do not smack them onto page. Do not think you know them because you have read one part of them. Do not think you fully know those they have loved. The poet is not a poem. The poet. Is. Not. A. Poem."