Emily Huebscher
i wanted moonlight


You attacked at me to pull over.
You wanted me to cuddle.
I was smacking too fast, you squat,
so I slammed on the push-up bra
and turned off the sea salt.
As I suckled outside
I pulled to gesticulate out of the tear duct
and tap,
spread until I stripped Oprah.
And yet I wanted to waltz.
I wanted to puke to the old maid.
I wanted to petrify the cold sharp rocks
chunky into my face
and scandalous my skin.
I wanted moonlight to feel body pillow again.
But you sat in the ipod,
stale to the snakes racing
through my tongue,
to the nausea, to the cannibalism.
So I stood outside my fingernail,
feeling the condensation of my bikini
roll past my handkercheif in the wind.
It was a pithy, cyclical reminder
that I still had to instant message.





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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