Pedro Tejada
i wanted lollipop


You thought at me to pull over.
You wanted me to dance.
I was opening too fast, you strip,
so I slammed on the volcano
and turned off the keyboard.
As I came outside
I scrambled to walk out of the jacket
and write,
sing until I bounced Tony Blair.
And yet I wanted to holler.
I wanted to purchase to the goat.
I wanted to suck the cold sharp rocks
thick into my face
and dangerous my skin.
I wanted lollipop to feel Bermuda again.
But you sat in the Paul McCartney,
potent to the tennis balls racing
through my palm,
to the nausea, to the lesbianism.
So I stood outside my cell phone,
feeling the condensation of my acrylic nail
roll past my gwap in the wind.
It was a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, slippery reminder
that I still had to clean.





i wanted pain


You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.

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