Eggs for Sale

Time and time again he whispered into my ear and tugged on the loops of my jeans.

“I want to give you a baby.”

The driving force of growing into your thirties has its perks, but the craving of a child is unstoppable and at most times inconvenient.

I’m not sure what led to our passion that night, but it was sexy; the kind you read about in books and tighten your legs to during movies.

Hands: everywhere.

Bodies covered in salted steam, hips swinging from the pendulum of momentum.

The release of him into me was enough to remind me what I was after. I absorbed his sperm with my subconscious like a mushroom blooming in the dark.

Babies.

I held him there, refusing to let him slip away.

All that was wrong would be wrong again.

You see, we were no longer dating. We hadn’t been for months. But as you age, you see yourself very differently alone. There’s a sudden need for routine; a craving for the familiar. One thing was for certain: I wasn’t curious anymore. I’d been with many men, hardly one more surprising than the next. And it wasn’t the need for sex. Sex was more laborious than ever and I was aging. Twisting the skin on your neck and near your underarms is enough to make someone reevaluate habits and reaffirm self-doubt. One thing is for certain, if you are aging, so are your eggs.

Many times over the past few months I had decided I might be alone and old forever. Selfishly, no one to give me the gift I desired most; to create a life.

All I once I sat up in the bed and coughed to release his life from entering mine.

Is this what I have come to? Hormones become a Human?

My not-yet-thirty year-old body is not yet ready to be responsible for the passion of a one-night stand with an exhausted lover!

 

…But maybe tomorrow.

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E.

Pin the warmth between the sheets

Missing him will all it’ll ever be

Daylight shadows cover me in all the forms of fleeting time

from hours I can’t leave my mind

In bed and shook and slaughting rhyme

Of what I could have done to keep him mine.

Narcissus

I saw you crying once. 

Outside of the bedroom late at night.
We had washed up after a party and dragged in the same old, bitter fight. 

Who was I to you? Why couldn’t you show?

So here we are:
You on the livingroom floor.
Me, peering through a crack in the bedroom I wished wasn’t ours. A hallway of mirrors fall between us and we cannot reach each other through our own reflection.
We would only see ourselves.

An Ode to the Desert Car

You seem bent and out of shape. Your music vibrates a low-fi hum with grinds of shifting gears. I adored you. The way you provided protection and direction. An escape and a sanctuary. How many adventures have we reached? Missed appointments and bare feet. A clutter of life thrown in the backseat. How many hot days have you protected me, thrown the seat back and let me sleep. Been the lifeline of long distance lust and getaway from those I could not trust. Oh, dear car of fabric, plastic and metal, I wished you were here to be my hero.

Tease me with a soul to keep.
Break my back for times you weep.

Never let mine be of weight.

But promise me my heart won’t break.

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Test me with all the promises you keep,

All the challenges you meet,

All the words you repeat.

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Tell me via social feed how perfectly I keep,

My good intentions you perceived and that you never let me weep.

Seal kisses into gigabytes

And delete proof of all the fights.

Forever try and settle the score

Of something that will be no more.

The Culture of My Men

You are not from the culture of my men.

You have charm that does not whistle or honk at my features. Instead, you praise the thickness of my thighs with a poem from your own lips.

You do not attempt to impress my father by talking sports. Instead, you listen to him complain about work and prompt him to persist in venting; remembering every detail.

You do not pick the pieces of my broken life and judge their placement. Instead, you have allowed all those experiences to be everything you love about me.

You do not dare bother with other guys in my life, as if they mean to hurt us. Instead, you embrace my personality and encourage human connection.

You welcome every one with a handshake and a thank you, pridefully practicing a language foreign and unnatural to your lips. 

You are not entertained by the simple minded, yet care for all the simple pleasure. You stare into the silence and do not dare interrupt it.

You have eyes that split into rays of the sun. Colors that grasp for my brown and highlight your hazel. Laugh lines that could hold fields of flowers. A toothy grin with a suspect of suspense, while you suckle on your bottom lip. Cheeks that have seen repair. Ears that have heard beats of a busted drum. Thin cookie-colored hair that toasted perfectly in your mother’s womb. And a thin frame, not muscular enough to be manly, too tall to be usual, too light to be Latino, but beautiful; so beautiful. And yet not… not of the culture of my men.

My dreams, not yours

From the bottom of my heart, all I have wanted from you was you. But you didn’t have the courage to follow through. Didn’t allow me a picture of us two, a baby and a dog Moo, a house with a porch too. 

You didn’t see my dreams come true. You hated how I invisioned my future, called it poo. Believed in your own coo. Believed in your friends too. Just not me. Not what I believe. Make me your enemy so that I may see defeat. So that I might take the heat for you never loving me.