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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is my first in a series of poems I'm going to work on. I figured since I've devoted so much of my writing to the one man who destroyed me completely, I should also write about the good relationships I had. So I'm going to a piece on each lover, whether a long-term relationship or a one-night-stand.

Submitted: November 29, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 29, 2011



that's not your real name

you love the sex pistols

you call me Nancy

in a British accent

a foot and a half taller than me

tattoo on your foot

eyes like the O's on a blue neon say that says


reading me richard brautigan in bed

voodoo altar on your desk

melting candles everywhere

my clothes always smell like incense when I leave

but they're your clothes

you even let me read your poetry

I never let you read mine

you tste like clove cigarettes as you kiss me when you leave in the morning

smoke coming out your mouth

into mine

probably the worst alcoholic I've ever met

I wanted you for so long

but it got so hot standing in front of that stove


punching holes in your walls

making me eggs in the middle of the night

with brass knuckles

I almost could have loved you

but I might have just been mourning

giant hands

giant feet

mummify me with your arms

and we'll fuck until the drugs put you to sleep

let the candles burn the house down

the incense suffocate us

the liquor poison us

it got so hot standing in front of that stove

© Copyright 2018 BriaTaylor. All rights reserved.

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