Not only have I put all my eggs

in your basket,

I have incubated them,

they have hatched, and now

they’re co-dependent chickens.

 

I have a scar on my wrist

from a man who meant nothing.

I should have gotten stitches,

but I wanted a reminder

of what happens when I get drunk

and pretend to want someone else.

 

You used to say you could see

an island in my eyes,

back when you still studied me

when my bedroom was a wonderland

sweat, and glitter.

 

I know you are disturbed

by the ferocity of my affection.

Would it soothe you if I said

I only want you for your corpse?

 

 

 

Sarah Bridgins
is a writer and performer living in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Sink Review, InDigest, Monkeybicycle, Two Serious Ladies, Thrush, and Bone Bouquet among other journals. You can read more of her writing at http://sbridgins.tumblr.com/

Photo by Steven Depolo, Creative Commons

 

Filed under: Poetry

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