Tart

I could lick your face
Grab the side of it and go
In your car
The taste of tart
Tip of my tongue
A flavor I must learn
To acquire
If I can
I know you come with tart
I can see it
On your palms
Soft but with a callus
Or two
Don’t worry
I don’t need to hear it
I can see her right there
You do a terrible job of hiding
What you don’t know
Is that I beat you
To your own…
Punch-line.

Flames

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/flames/

It is possible
To be an element of earth
And still feel your heat
The bull and the ram
Tango fiercely with our thoughts
Never to give
Never to let down
Can’t you see
I am a sensitive bull
Trying to break you
I see you want
And I see you try
Come to me with no force
But with hands open wide
So I might let myself go
Into you deeply
That’s where I want to be
And so shall I try
To break off this idea
That I must be stronger
Than that gaze you give me
We must reach a common term
I give, and you give as well
Or we will die trying
To get closer to each other
With horns pointed sharp
At each other’s hearts

Birthdays, again…

Apparently friendship is a creature of slow growth, like an osteoma, except worse.

Today I miss the birthday’s of two “new” friends. Just as so many before them, they are November babies and only one of them is really turning a year older today, the other is just being convenient and having a Sunday bash, because fuck having your birthday on a Tuesday, right?!

They’re not even old enough to be the silver to my gold, according to the classic children’s song, “Make New Friends,” but keep the old…

And now I have an irrational fear building up inside that my lack of presence at this day drinking party will tick me off the friend list for good, no silver, no gold and no nothing, ever. If this was a test, which I do believe it is, I have just failed.

Worst part isn’t even the fact that I miss a day of day drinking, which I LOVE, because i’m still young enough to not be considered an alcoholic even if I consume WAYYY too many “glasses” of red wine and other things that taste like red wine. No. Not even close.

The worst part is that one of them is British, the most unforgiving of the races, because being British IS a race of people. People who take tea, crumpets and have a Queen, but DO NOT have patience for a loud American girl to miss their only birthday of the year. No sir. Don’t expect them to come around during the springtime for your birthday missy, this is a closed book deal and you did not get signed. Boo hoo.

Just like November to royally fuck me over yet again. First I have the birthday’s of my wicked older biological sisters,  which I hate. THEN this party for my very funny and very Jewish friend, and my very British-not-so-funny-or-forgiving Jewish friend which I REALLY want to go to but can’t.

But now for the butt fuck, because I can’t go to this party, because just like last week and the week before, I am sick. And I am so sick that I am sick of being sick. Like, just got off prednisone, augmentin and spiked cold syrup, you know, the good stuff with just enough opiates that it will make people like Robert Downey Jr., sing. That kind of sickness.

What’s the worst part of being sick? Probably that you’re afraid that no one will believe you’re sick so you have to be an idiot and Snapchat the whole thing. Ugly, stuffed-up and sad. You Snapchat your sickness like a badge of honor. And guess what?

They still don’t buy it. So here I am. Watching Lovesick on Netflix and wondering when this will all end, the sickness that is, but mostly the friendship. While 30 minutes by car away, my friends talk shit about “that one girl who tried to fit in that one time by saying she’d go to a birthday party and then got fake sick.” Yeah, that’s me, i’m the girl.

Well fuckety fuck.