I sold my heart for tequila and cocktail
napkins and your dark eyes watching me
sip on pear beer and wonder if it is god
or the devil who creates beautiful things like
you. "This doesn't have a number on it," you
snicker as I hand you a napkin, watch you toss
it into the trash, watch my heart rate spike
matching the bass driven rock and roll song I've
never heard. I've never heard of Wednesday night
crushes, leaning on the bar, raising my hand, a pupil
for your attention. You gave it. I gave in.
"This one has a number on it so don't throw it away."
Perhaps you were blind to the spark that shone brightly
hindering my vision and common sense. What did you do
with those seven numbers, my name signed in my best
cursive and my hands under my chin as I stare at my phone.
24, 48, 72 hours and the magazines say you'll never call and
my mind says "stupid girl, thinking you can catch fire when
just the sun burns your fingers". I'm scorched. Wondering
why I'm standing near the pool table, red under florescent
lights, eyes peeking over my shoulder to see you buying
more hearts for gin and juice. Leaning over the bar,
handing you my embarrassment to pay for pretty
pink mixed liquor hitting my lips.
YOU ARE READING
Manic - A Book of Poetry
PoetryAn ever-growing collection of poetry from the racing thoughts of a twenty one year old female.
