I don’t know what it is about traveling that makes me feel this way
It’s always new. It’s always old.
I boarded the bus to go down south,
Thinking that the world ended at the southern border of Ohio
A boy told me I was going to see him,
I told him not to flatter himself.
I kept fighting sleep though I wasn’t driving,
My hands still ache,
Either from the modern times or the lack of being held.
And I watched the reflections from the laptop of the gentleman’s movie flashing in front of me off of the window.
He told me my hair flirted with my lips I flipped it and blew smoke,
And nonchalantly he spoke, “but you’re still beautiful.”
Anticipations of coming across love deafen me with anxiety again,
Because it hurts all the time and I feel it everywhere,
Like the ache in my hands.
So I look down because it makes me feel utterly unsure,
And it’s a different perspective,
So many people’s cars are messy,
So many people’s lives are messy,
Don’t bring me into another mess when I’m trying to get clean.
It’s hard to idealize,
As though poems had never been written about it before.
When I was a little girl
I was told that antifreeze
tasted sweet to dogs
& that’s why people used it
to poison them & if that’s true,
then is it the same reason why
you always tasted like a peach
picked perfectly ripe & in season?