I do not want the boys. I don’t want the games and the glances. I don’t want the room temperature beers bought for me and the trying-too-hard to-be-cute conversations. I don’t want the pretend compliments, or the walks of shame. I don’t want the rules or the jealously, and I really don’t want the dirty looks from the pretty girls. I do not want the cold sores or the quarter-life crises. I don’t want the Spring break or the Snap Chats. I definitely do not want the shots of Patron. Or the lime. Or the salt. I can do without the tagged photos on Facebook and the 2:00 AM text messages that make very little sense. I don’t need to be taken out to one more dinner at an overpriced restaurant whose all-organic ingredients only ever come from local sources. I don’t want words to be tossed around by the ones who won’t begin to learn their real meanings for another twenty years.

     I want the men. I want the jawbones with just enough stubble and strategically placed scars. I want the stern voices. I want the hands that have touched many women before me, for that is the only way they can know how to touch me just the right way. I want those hands to appreciate me, because I am not the first. I am not the fifth. I want to plead the fifth. 

      I want the short tempers. I want the intelligence. I want the tattered books older than I am stacked on bookshelves taller than I am. I want the achy bones, and the dirt underneath the fingernails. I want the tell-tale signs that he has been smoking cigarettes since I was eight. I want to fuck his brain more than I want to fuck his body. I want all of the wrong-doings of a lifetime to make the man speak to me a certain way, but never with certainty. Because the men know that nothing is certain. His tone of voice will teach me things I could never learn from all of the boys. When the men speak the words, they know the weight of their meanings. 

     I do not want the boys. I only want the men. 

     But the men are too smart to want me. They know my type. They’ve seen us before. The girls who think they are good enough for the men, but aren’t. Smart enough to stay away from the boys, but naive enough to go after the men. The men aren’t fooled by the lines I so carefully paint onto my eyelids in the morning. The lines on my eyelids make me late to work every day. They are not impressed by my perky bust or my smooth, tan legs which I spend so much time on in the bath every night. They are bored to death by the high heels making my small feet look ever more dainty. The men can see right through my youthful fake smile. 

     The men want the women. You know the ones.

     The men want the women with the flawed bodies and the broken minds. The women don’t want to go to parties, because they have been to parties before. In fact, if you are lucky enough to convince them to go out for a drink, they will choose the bar most likely to be quiet. If it’s a Friday night, the women would rather be found snuggled up to their old dog with an issue of The New Yorker. They want the women who have learned that what they look like doesn’t matter as long as they are literate. It took the women fifteen years to learn this. They want the women whose legs aren’t quite as smooth anymore, because they spend more time reading books and making art than grooming themselves. They want exactly the type of woman that I hope to be someday.

     The men don’t want me. The men want the women. And I don’t blame them. Still, I do not want the boys.


On being tiny

My pants are too tiny for
them but my opinions are 
never tiny enough
‘shhhhh’ said society but 
the fingers pressed tightly 
against the plump lips 
the judging eyes 
painted black and 
heads shaking in 
disapproval will
never keep the words from
escaping my
tiny mouth and
entering the 
air we share
I may be tiny but 
they would never know it
if they were blind. 

The way I remember it

I do not
what your hand
felt like 
on the small
of my back
gently nudging me in
the right direction
I try, but I can 
not remember
the longing way 
you would look
at me
each morning 
as I sat
fixing my hair
in lacy lingerie
before I’d leave
for work
I just do not 
missing you 
during those
long days
or considering 
that you might
miss me
or how good 
that may have felt 
I cannot be reminded
of the way 
you would grin
when I’d make you
as if
melted cheese 
on top of stale
old chips
was the only way 
to your heart
but I do remember 
the way
the clock
on the wall
would stare
me down 
reminding me 
that I was running 
out of time
and I can not
the nagging feeling
that I did 
not want 
to waste
of that time
with you.

The Night I Nearly Bled to Death

‘I’m bleeding to death!” I yelled down the hall.
As my house mate patched me up
with gauze
I looked down at the drops on the tile
disgusted by my own blood
“This might sting” she said
wiping my shin with an alcohol pad
two band-aids
soaked right through
she came back with a rag
“Apply pressure” she told me
it was eight
I was late
by this time I should have been
dolled up in a pretty black dress
now I would have to wear pants
or not show up at all
my dark red blood ruined six
of our kitchen towels
that night
we went through a whole box of band-aids in under an hour
do you know how expensive those things are?
All of this
because I wanted to have smooth legs.