in between your sheets

Everything about you is a contradiction spanning a few sluggish weeks of adjustment that closed my mind and focused the lens of my eyes fast upon you. From jimi hendrix and "he played the fucking national anthem with his feet on guitar or something" to "yeah, you're such an english major." But when you're barely ever lucid, how can you ever accuse me of my rapid fire thoughts? Your only concern was climbing into my loft of intangibles to leave visible traces of yourself. I admit: my sheets went unwashed for weeks because the scent of you felt more like home than the home that's hours away and miles from my mind, despite the constant chatter about winter break plans and my real home. The real home that's a rare occurrence that I live eat and breathe and sleep and advocate. You just scoffed and laugh at my enthusiasm for the velvety green of my heritage and curled your lip at my incessant use of fuck, but rather as my irish fresh off the boat father would say, it's "feck," if you please. From your broken pipe to your so called philanthropic deeds, it seems as if you walk around with a cloud of smoke around your head. As the circle of people included in the knowledge of my body grows, each time I rewind back to every single naive second and wonder whether you were too busy mending your bamboo pipe to notice that the crack in my heart was much more permanent. Widening as deep as an abyss, swallowing everything from between my thighs and circulating through my lungs for the full effect of destruction. We were born to fall apart, right? We were made to fall apart. With centuries of suicidal poets behind me, I already know I'm destined to be a wonderful basket case spanning the range of human emotion, neatly packaged and just like every stereotype the feminist criticism dictates: nymphomaniac, spinster, psychopathic... oh, am I forgetting any other fine qualities males seem to think we possess? I just fall for this boy who poses as a grounding influence but is really drowning in the instability of his own supposed nonaddiction. Suddenly it hits me - well I hate to be vulgar. No, I don't really mind using obscenities but - is it always that it all comes out after they fuck you? I can't carry these piles of skeletons through corn mazes because I'm suburban posing as urban but really she doesn't know what she is. I know that thin limbs and the most intense girlish laugh on this boy somehow kicked my knees out and had me lying on the ground in shock and defeat and what was that word? Oh. Uselessness. I am not a plaything to be discarded. No, we can't just be friends. I demand more, I need more, I - feel as if I went backwards from the mantra of mind before body but every human being gives into the tug of attraction that tugs at the clothing articles with the push of a little bit of spirits and the shotglass collections and the belief that everything happens for a reason. But I haven't done anything to warrant such bad karma - I share, I love my neighbors, I try my hardest, and still, I come up with the worst hand of cards and the sheepish grin that says, "it must be that irish luck." But in the meantime, I crowd the back corners of my mind with memories of you and attempt to keep my feet out of the muck
that's starting to drown you. I'm barely getting my head above the water as it is. A minute treading, keep your hands out of the water. What's your email again? You worked so hard this week but I'm afraid you just weren't good enough. Sir, I'm afraid to tell you that I'm far beyond the talent that you seem to think I don't possess. Every stanza about supposed failure needs no segway. All the cheap thrills that I've indulged in have brought nothing but angst and I wish you could just get out of my bloodstream. All I've wanted is to bury my face against the crevice below your collarbone that fits perfectly and collapse into the dreamlike trance that had me underneath its feathers not so long ago. All the beds knocking against the walls are the only things that remind me of you. I know where I can find my sense of self. In between your sheets, woven into the fabric like a tapestry of liasions.