Thoughts:
Spoiler
Honestly, I nearly didn't post this one because it got me so panicked to even think of. It's just extremely vulnerable, I guess? All the others are vulnerable too, but there's a bit of a shroud and a bit of an... act, I would say, in the negative self-talk of the other poems. It's a persona for a narrator that fits the theme I'm wanting to talk on, even if many of the experiences I talk about are real. This one though just feels purely me in an extremely uncomfortable way, and I still feel regret for letting my OCD completely back me out of something I was really enjoying. I don't know... thoughts. Hm.
Text version:
Spoiler
On our first date, he bought
pizza and I bought the drinks,
one of each type of soda he
said he liked, and one for me,
and garlic bread—small, round
crispy pieces from Kroger that
I’d never heard of before.
He’d said he’d never seen The
Lost Boys and I said we should
watch it together and he asked
if I was asking him on a date
and I said yes.
He showed up forty-five minutes
late and didn’t respond to my texts
for the last twenty-five of them, and
I thought I’d been stood up, and I
was nearly crying, and my roommate
said she’d stay with me until he got
there (if he got there), until he texted
me that the pizza place had just been
really busy and he was on his way.
I was still in that Edward era,
those ‘go to sleep tired’ times,
and he laughed at me and said
I probably just liked the movie
because the 80s men were hot.
At the time, I thought he was
cute.
When we finished the
movie, we kissed, and his lips
tasted like the gum he’d offered
me, like he’d been preparing to
wipe away the traces of garlic
from the both of us, and then he
said it was a really great night,
and I said I’d like to do it again,
and he agreed, and then he left.
I feel a little sick about it now.
He was really nice, but I can’t
let myself have nice things. He
left me half the pizza, and I
threw it in the trash a few days
later because I knew I’d never
eat it, but couldn’t bear to tell
him so to his face.
Maybe I will throw up. Maybe
the garlic bread from months ago
sits now in my stomach, simmering,
waiting for me to puke my guts out
because vampires can’t have garlic
in the same way that my OCD can’t
stomach the idea of unjustifiable
happiness.
It only took a few
hours for my brain to convince
me I’d never liked him in the
first place—that even though I
made the first move, I’d actually
never found him attractive, and I
was trapped, and I was stuck, and
I couldn’t get out, and I couldn’t
breathe, and—
I survived a few more dates trying
desperately to push past the paranoia
before I let my OCD win. He really
was very nice. He had the same name
as my recently deceased dog. We all
want things the minute they’re out of
our reach, I guess.
The leftover garlic bread stayed on
top of my fridge for a few weeks,
until I panicked at the thought that
even breathing with it around might
kill me from its decay. I didn’t see
any mold, but I felt it there anyway.
I always do.
pizza and I bought the drinks,
one of each type of soda he
said he liked, and one for me,
and garlic bread—small, round
crispy pieces from Kroger that
I’d never heard of before.
He’d said he’d never seen The
Lost Boys and I said we should
watch it together and he asked
if I was asking him on a date
and I said yes.
He showed up forty-five minutes
late and didn’t respond to my texts
for the last twenty-five of them, and
I thought I’d been stood up, and I
was nearly crying, and my roommate
said she’d stay with me until he got
there (if he got there), until he texted
me that the pizza place had just been
really busy and he was on his way.
I was still in that Edward era,
those ‘go to sleep tired’ times,
and he laughed at me and said
I probably just liked the movie
because the 80s men were hot.
At the time, I thought he was
cute.
When we finished the
movie, we kissed, and his lips
tasted like the gum he’d offered
me, like he’d been preparing to
wipe away the traces of garlic
from the both of us, and then he
said it was a really great night,
and I said I’d like to do it again,
and he agreed, and then he left.
I feel a little sick about it now.
He was really nice, but I can’t
let myself have nice things. He
left me half the pizza, and I
threw it in the trash a few days
later because I knew I’d never
eat it, but couldn’t bear to tell
him so to his face.
Maybe I will throw up. Maybe
the garlic bread from months ago
sits now in my stomach, simmering,
waiting for me to puke my guts out
because vampires can’t have garlic
in the same way that my OCD can’t
stomach the idea of unjustifiable
happiness.
It only took a few
hours for my brain to convince
me I’d never liked him in the
first place—that even though I
made the first move, I’d actually
never found him attractive, and I
was trapped, and I was stuck, and
I couldn’t get out, and I couldn’t
breathe, and—
I survived a few more dates trying
desperately to push past the paranoia
before I let my OCD win. He really
was very nice. He had the same name
as my recently deceased dog. We all
want things the minute they’re out of
our reach, I guess.
The leftover garlic bread stayed on
top of my fridge for a few weeks,
until I panicked at the thought that
even breathing with it around might
kill me from its decay. I didn’t see
any mold, but I felt it there anyway.
I always do.
