Wanting Expression

Mix me another martini and I will dance on the bar barefoot. Watch me strip and read poetry at your art gallery. We will talk about repressed expression and sexuality. On the stairs that night, I ran naked past your roommate. He barely noticed me. I felt like I was trying to flag down a bee.


In the emergency room, they asked if I might be pregnant. With the pain in my stomach screaming shades of red, it was no time for white lies. Please don’t tell my brother while you are working, I wouldn’t want my family to hear about this second or even first hand. Lying in your bed made me feel less lonely, even after you woke up and left. I could still smell you on the sheets.

My mom invited you to lunch in the cafeteria. It must have been awkward for you, talking about sexual health over cold sandwiches while I slept with an IV in my arm. Upon my release, I started swallowing pills each morning, counting them out in circles of doubt.

I can’t believe I even told you my secrets, but you mixed me a martini, but you mixed me, you mixed me up like oil paints spread out on canvas and then digitally re-mastered me. I could still feel you, holding me the way I hadn’t been held for many months.

I tried to go back to sleep but I could only worry about your roommate and what he must think of my body. You caught my garter at the wedding and hung it from your rearview mirror for weeks. I wondered why I cared so much and then I wanted a drink.