The words roll their eyes
and tell me,
get over here.
The words pin me to a wall
by my small wrists.
The words hold me
for a time, saying nothing.
The words are caught up
and won’t visit till later.
The words call. They don’t text.
The words unwrap
hot pink desires.
You’re probably wondering
what the words are doing.
They topple beside me,
The words bring my hands to
They erase space
bit by bit.
Eat me out in an abandoned store
at the mall, with its changing room
eerily lit and the bathroom still
stocked with toilet paper.
Choke me against a concrete wall
and hope no one checks footage.
In this horror movie, we both die;
we have la petite mort.
I want to lick your long neck
in front of everyone at this party
and then whisper, “vamonos.”
You grip my wrists: “vamanos.”
Pink tulips demand to be photographed.
Call it vanity, but my breasts should be
featured in your lens il più delle volte.
(I’m another millennial poet with great tits.)
I’m vengeful and désolé.
I’m horny and lo siento.
I’m making a lot of mistakes.
I use too many letters of the alphabet,
writing with my right hand, in black ink,
on a card found in a laundromat,
via US Postal and one forever stamp.
I am sorry.
Sarah A. O’Brien is a writer, artist, and teacher living outside of Boston, MA. She will graduate with an MFA in Poetry from University of Nebraska-Omaha in December 2018. Sarah is working on a book of poems, probably called Chameleon. She is the Founder and EIC of Boston Accent Lit. Follow her at @saraheditsbooks and @fluent_Saracasm.