queenoflattes

“Whatever you are, be a good one.” The words stare at us, accusatory, gray in gray with the sky and the cold, right there in front of us. We are crushing wet, brown leaves beneath the soles of our worn shoes without a sound. At least it’s raining. That is the one thing I can think about, how I’m glad that it’s raining, because it seems respectful and fitting and just uncomfortable enough to give us a glimpse of what our thoughts feel like, when we feel too numb to remember. We stand still, in the wind and the rain, and I watch how her sister buries her head between the soaked sleeves of her jacket like a scare

“John Green is wrong”, I said, in the red dress, the one That swishes around my legs. John Green, you’re wrong because You don’t get to choose who hurts you. Instead We lock our hands under the stars When we smell smoke, and Run, Hoping for the best. “John Green is wrong”, I said, when my lipstick and “tonight” Had both worn off. “Didn’t he direct that movie?” “No.” How Shallow and nice. “John Green was wrong”, I thought, when the tide came in, We are going to burn.

You're the Two a.m. kind of love That's when I Hit my pillow Laugh at stupid things And smoke out the window You're the Picking pockets kind of love Because you Took without asking And I didn't know at first Because my money was still there You're the Burn the cake in the oven kind of love Because I Kind of forgot Before the timer went off But my then the sugar already melted You're the Typing error on a typewriter kind of love Because the page was blank and at least then It wasn't wrong And because there is so much noise when I type out: a l m o s t

It starts with a seemingly unrelated cactus and a "happy Valentine's day" I send back a picture of my current drink My smile a little heavy When I read Online Because that means Aurelie, waiting It continues with lots Of typing mistakes on my side And "I miss you" kissy smilies She sends back Nothing And my thumbs are saucy and clumsy When I wait for Aurelie, typing

I woke up To a city in orange-gray that's been up since        4 am To last night’s clothes on the floor of        That hotel room To that little noise you made when you slept To my feet tangled in white sheets (To my thoughts trying not to race). And I thought That there are sure nicer and cleaner places than this But that maybe this wasn’t so bad Because for a moment there I could see everything: I could see everything we were supposed to be. (But without the hotel room And without the city And the white sheets We just weren't.)

This is a short story about that girl. I don’t know what kind of story there is to tell, though. You know her. You know that girl you think of when you listen to that song with a lot of acoustic guitar and slow lyrics. The one that spilled her drink down her shirt and cursed and then bit her lip. The one that reminds you of good descriptions in books, or a movie scene that probably includes a window with rain drops on it. Her. Maybe you barely know her. Maybe you walk behind her down the hallway at school and wonder if she can’t find a newer backpack. Maybe she calls you at 1 am and wants to go somewhere. That ‘s the thing

You smell like fresh flowers and prejudiced sin With lit up red windows and limbs made out of tin You build bridges with smiles (that suggest a lot of lace) And the houses stand tall and crooked like scrawled letters on your face You taste like upside down coffee and worn-out wind on water Those shaky thick dark bricks stacked up by your father's father And legs with heels And bikes with wheels wear out your streets Down the canal the boat is flowing Since no one's been there rowing For years There's too much satin and velvet For so much cotton And not enough credit For so much fame Yet I am A fallen victim Of your spells and your charm

In elementary school I had braids and buckteeth I was too smart to fit in perfectly The boys tried to impress each other By comparing the scary movies they'd seen And two of them asked me to lift my skirt in second grade And I did because I didn't know that you're not supposed to. In 9th grade I had no proper haircut And everyone said That I was a little too weird to fit in And the boys tried to impress each other By comparing how many girls they'd kissed And almost all of them thought that they were funny When they smeared insults on my desk and gave me that look. And now When I coming home from a long day There's a boy I pass at the trai

"You never listen                  notice" "Nice boys are dirty" "Please stay" "God showers naked on mondays" "Almost poetry" "Dinner?" "Make love and drink wine." "I wonder if it's time to lick my ass" "kiss seduce know          me" respect bite You're gone since a couple of weeks, but the small white magnets are still scattered on the floor, and I can't get myself to put them back in the box. So I sit here and am silently scared that the cracks in the wood will eat up our stupid words that we never used. At all.

We met when the dirty january snow on the streets hadn't quite melted yet. They asked for people to go up front and say something because this was about theater, and theater requires a stage. But I didn't know anyone and I was the awkward hippie kid and way too fascinated by people that were shallower than her anyway. And she was shy and quiet because she always is in the beginning. We became friends when the snow had melted and the first leaves weren't quite strong enough to see the light of day yet. She smiled at me from the end of the room where she was standing, and I didn't pay too much attention as to how I smiled back, and how easily