I pop cinnamon Altoids
In my mouth at the stop sign
before your house.
In three minutes it will taste like alcohol
or maybe the memory of that time I got drunk
on fireball after learning
that you hit on my friend
when we were not actually together,
when we were nothing.
We are still nothing
but even more than nothing now
and I bite the Altoid between
my teeth, feeling it burn the soft tissue
of my cheek as I turn:
into your driveway,
the key in your lock,
the deadbolt behind me.
I take off my shoes and climb into your bed.
We have always been nothing, I think.
Cinnamon-flavored saliva stings
the back of my throat and I remember
the sting of wanting all of your somethings,
but not knowing how to be around you,
not knowing how to be what you wanted
of me. Now, I am exactly that girl,
but not exactly your girl.
I hear the shower door slip in its track.
We will always be nothing
in the existential sense
but in the sense, too, of this void
we live in, this space where we lay,
this little box we keep handy
and in the sense that we are solid, sweet, necessary
but the moment mouths touch
we begin to melt, to dissolve.
Girl On Top
this is the most vulnerable
I will ever feel:
my knees pressed tight
against your thighs.
it is no power position;
I can look nowhere else
but in your watered-down
this is feigned intimacy: my hands
on your chest, searching
for a support they will
your fingertips resting between ribs
drawing yourself in
to what feels like home but
how is it that you are
still in charge,
even when I have you
Isabella’s “official” bio will tell you that she listen to a whole bunch of 90’s alternative, that she hate poetry rules and writes a lot about sex and anxiety. It’ll tell you, too, that she lives in Michigan and has a chapbook coming in January from Finishing Line Press. You can find a whole lot of that information on her website, and her social media pages.