Touch

Touch

I squeeze the package.

Some sauce oozes out.

Slowly.

 

As if it could take any longer.

Here I am, squeezing the life out of this plastic.

And it has to feel like global warming is all a lie.

And the world is really re-freezing over.

 

My fingers are going numb.

I widen my eyes, trying to get the sauce out faster.

That doesn’t do anything.

It doesn’t even work.

My fingers just continue to grow numb.

 

Could you lose your fingers from squeezing sauce out of a semi-frozen package for dinner?

How come it’s gotta be so cold?

 

Why am I even doing it this way?

The box says to put the package into a pot of water on the stove for a fifteen minutes.

Then it says to put it in the microwave for four minutes.

 

I look at my fingers once I’m done.

Red. Throbbing. Motionless.

Now I have to wash my hands in cold water.

I think my fingers might go into shock.

Taste

Taste

I bring the fork to my mouth.

I pull the food off.

Mmm, a meatball.

 

I pick up some spaghetti.

I put it in my mouth.

I chew slowly, savoring the flavor.

It could be my last meal, you never know.

 

I let the funny, stringy feel of the spaghetti snake across my tongue.

And clamp down on it with my teeth.

 

I stab another meatball.

I put it in my mouth and chew on that.

Some sauce oozes out.

Hot, but so good.

 

A little spice.

Maybe some garlic.

Or oregano.

Whichever it is, it’s good.

 

I look down at my plate.

And I sigh.

I have to walk off the delicious calories of what I just put on.

To get more spaghetti.

Sound

Sound

Ah, I’m comfortable now.

I’m under the fluffy comforter.

My head is against the feather pillow.

 

My eyes slowly close.

And I let my mind wander.

 

WAAAHHH!

WHAT IS THAT?
My eyes widen.

 

I look at the wall.

The sound is getting louder.

…And scarier.

And there’s a light on my wall.

 

It’s closer.

I quickly look out my window.

A motorcycle zooms by.

Loud as ever.

 

I clutch my hand to my chest with a sigh.

I continue to stare out the window.

What kind of fool goes for an adventure ride in the middle of the night?

 

Oh…that’s right.

My ex-boyfriend.

And his sidekick: My brother.

Sight

Sight

I get a glass from the cupboard.

I open the fridge door and look inside.

A Mudslide?

A big blender of nothing but Kahlua and chocolatey goodness?

 

Who could resist?

I surely couldn’t!

 

But then I remember.

I’m at home.

And I’m underage.

 

I have to resist.

 

I scan the rest of the fridge, but the Mudslide still jumps out at me.

It stares me in the face.

It knows how to tease.

 

I catch sight of the clear soda at it’s side.

Looking small and lonely.

And not as yummy.

 

I grab the bottle and pour it in my glass.

Ah, clear soda.

Who would want this?

Scent

Scent

The door whisks open and a smell reaches my nose.

The smell of something saucy, something with a little spice.

Could it be? Could it be my favorite?

Pasta?

 

I re-open the door and the smell reaches my nose again.

Maybe it’s not pasta.

But it smells good.

 

My nose carries me to the kitchen.

The kitchen where the smell is even stronger.

There are no pots or pans.

Just the oven.

 

I open the door and look inside.

Spare ribs?

That was the smell? Barbecue sauce on meat?

 

I close the door with disgust and turn away.

I retreat to my room in silence.

I close that door too, blocking out the smell of tangy sauce and meat.

He’s Not Mine

He’s Not Mine

I hate when he’s sad,

I hate when he’s mad.

I hate when he’s sick,

I hate when he’s a dick.

I love him to death,

I feel like I’m blessed.

 

 The problem is,

He’s not mine.

 

 I like to joke with him,

I’d love to hold him.

I like his smile,

But I’d love a kiss once in a while.

He makes me happy,

But also makes me feel crappy.

 

 The problem is,

He’s not mine.

 

 I see him sometimes,

But enough isn’t sometimes.

And so here I sit,

Feeling like a twit.

For not telling him,

That I love him.

 

 The problem is,

He’s not mine.

 

 So I’ll tell him now,

And it could feel like a “Pow!”

But he won’t know,

So there’ll be no blow.

‘Cause there is no name,

Just my lame…

Ass feelings,

In writings.

To The One Who’s There

To The One Who’s There

I’m sorry for the way I treated you,

It was not right.

You wanted to understand,

But I put up a fight.

 

You wanted to help,

But I didn’t think you could.

You persisted,

Like I knew you would.

 

You got upset,

Because I wasn’t happy like you know.

Because I was quiet,

And not putting on a show.

 

I have to thank you,

For trying to be there.

Not many people,

Would be aware.

 

So I’m sorry,

And I thank you.

Next time I’ll remember,

Not to let you think I hate you.

Falling For You

Falling For You

I fell for him,

And it left me bruised.

You saw the pain,

And knew I was confused.

 

You tried to understand,

I just wouldn’t let you in.

Because I was scared,

Of it happening again.

 

But I realize now,

You’re not the same.

You’re the real deal,

You don’t play the game.

 

And so here I am,

Opening up to you.

I don’t do this often,

Just for a few.

 

Because I believe,
That this is true.

That I really am,

Falling for you.