Plastic Houseplant
Colombian beer and a trip to the mall, $2 local drive-in cheeseburgers like the Creator intended. I made a plan to give my number to the gas station attendant on a sticky note next time I go to buy a drink. I did it the next day on a receipt in my roommate’s lipstick. I think he’ll want me. He already tells me he does with his eyes and the way he never cards me. I’m a 3 minute walk away. I’m a catch. I’m folklore. I’m an escape room you never find your way out of. Colombian beer and a bad playlist. Shitty pop. This everything shower. She makes me laugh like a kid, and he makes me wish growing up would last forever
I spent twenty days remembering everything. Your coat. Every white lie. Snow. Liver failure. Composition notebooks. Bullshit and a deck of cards. Butterflies. Lasagna. My dad’s vampire encounter in the catacombs underneath Paris. Emptying shelves just to turn around and fill them back up. The power of plants. Naps. Hugs. Skin cancer. Saying sorry and meaning it. Saying I love you. And meaning it.
I spent twenty days remembering everything but I still somehow forgot that you’re somewhere out there, lying to yourself. I forgot about your guard being up but a peach mojito brought it right back down. A peach mojito won you the science fair. A peach mojito turned those walls to glass.
This time, I promise I won’t forget that in the morning.
You Did Your Best
You did your best and
You’re still a stand up legend at the local dive. You’re not funny but you know how to pretend.
I think you’re worth a laugh or two.
I think the world spins faster, just a mile or two per hour, when your smile shows.
My life is orange. Always. It’s a joke but it’s sweet and it means something to me.
Maybe I’ll die at 27 like Joplin and Winehouse, and it’s positive that I’ll have left something important behind. I already have at 22. I’ve left butts of $9 cigarettes, this poem, and an impact on you.