The Words

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,

tipsily.

 

The words bring my hands to

waiting lips.

 

They erase space

between us,

bit by bit.

 

Love Languages

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.

Mi dispiace.

 

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.