My Almost Romeo

There is something to be said about doing romantic things with unromantic people. About having picnics in Central Park with Italian wine and store-bought mozzarella cheese and assorted crackers, in the hopes of even slightly resembling Europe. About laying out on blankets in Bryant Park and watching  poorly delivered renditions of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, in desperate attempts to soak in every source of literature possible, regardless of quality. About getting on the last 6 train to Little Italy because of sudden hankerings for cannolis and gelato, despite having to spend the very last of dollar bills on subway fares. There is something to be said about existing in a medium so wonderfully crafted by things of love; but one where it cannot, and will not, exist.

Junior Year

I bit his lip

and filled his mouth

with my girlish laughter

because I was thinking
of the last word I said

before he planted
his boyish kiss on me:

Schizophrenia.

And I thought to myself,

wrapped in the unjustified murky air

of my parents' newly renovated basement,

Could I be schizophrenic?

Or maybe I had multiple personality disorder;

all the crazies melted into one big psychotic mess

on the glossy textbook page anyway.

 

Because this isn't me,

the girl laying
on the one-star quality mattress,

with his fingers
expertly unhooking my bra

and my amateur hand

trailing down the inside of his pants,

his zipper chipping away

at the $10 manicure I got last Wednesday.

This isn't me,

the girl drinking stale beer

in the back of a rundown Irish shack,

watching him empty
his confidence-infused brains

into a garbage can twice his size,

letting him nuzzle my neck

even though he reeked

of last night's home cooked dinner

and today's early lunch.

 

No.

 

No thank you,

this is just a version of me,

a deluded,
affection-hungry one;

the shell that was left
after you pushed me

out of our perfect nest,

with so much haste and fervor

that a few twigs made the trip down with me.