Keys

I look for love like I look for my keys.

I start from where I began,

Without pants.

I empty my pockets filled with trash,

A hoarding habit born from my youth.

I say I’ll dispose of my garbage,

But I pick up more along the way.

Gum fills my life,

Because I like the smell and the violence.

I imagine my worst enemies ground beneath my teeth,

And the taste dulls with each bite.

I treasure empty wrappers; every wad of gum needs a home.

In the end, my trash lies forgotten in a sticky mess I regret.

I retrace my steps

Keys don’t just disappear.

If I’m desperate, I call out to them,

And shake my head at the silliness.

I’ve prayed to a god I don’t believe in,

And I say if you help me just this once I’ll be more careful next time.

I know it’s a lie, but God is mute like my keys.

I always find them eventually,

Yet I’ll lose them the next day guaranteed.

I’ll curse and stomp my feet,

But I’m the only one to blame.

Keys are tricky to find,

Small, unnoticeable in my chaotic life.

I’ve punched a wall in the morning,

I know I can’t go home if I don’t find them.

There are times where I look for hours and hours,

And they’re usually resting in plain sight.

Why I Read

I’ve heard people brag about how little they read,

as if their abstinence is admirable,

as if words could cloud their coolness,

as if books would weigh down their minds.

I joke about my carnivorous diet,

How vegetables are for cows,

And I say I’m well and good,

but I’m not healthy.

and I remember the days when strong was sexy,

still true

and to be studious was hysterical.

So I lied,

I said I didn’t read, didn’t do the homework,

And I skipped class because I don’t remember why,

But I remember falling in love with Eliza Doolittle

And I yelled at Henry Higgins, she’s an angel and you blew it.

I remember practicing my Mr. Darcy voice,

pretended I was a gentleman,

But I’m a Long Islander.

I remember striking an Atlas pose

Flexing my baby fat

Because Edmond Dantes spurred my testosterone,

And I left my blinds up.

My butt blindly waved hello

And my ninth grade crush ran away.

Flannery O’ Connor made me cry,

Tillie Olsen too,

Raymond Carver always,

Jerks.

Books make good weapons,

but better pillows.

Brothers Karamazov bruises.

My old roommate can attest,

We fought about something I can’t remember,

And I grabbed my book and beat him,

But books house dreams and you wouldn’t break your house.

I heard the spine snap as I slapped my friend.

I said sorry to Fyodor,

Curled up in bed and held my breath

When Ivan went insane.

I read because the words tell me I’m ok,

Even if I’m not,

They tell me it’s ok to feel,

But guys aren’t supposed to feel,

Never in public.

The words carry me like a mother and her newborn,

And show me the world in a fresh light,

As if I had been blind all along.