I’VE BEEN TRYING TO WRITE A POEM ABOUT FUCKING
There was a boy in the summer he was English tall sandy-haired very handsome
There was me outside his apartment there was my bike locked behind me there was a quiet leafy street
There was care to come up for a spot of tea?
It was quick got it over with his kisses lush and perfect
When he suspended himself above me I watched his mouth his lips crumpled up
folded in a way that was both soft and sharp at once
Like a kid knelt above a coloring book
I’ve been trying to write a poem about fucking excuse me I’ve been trying to make it pretty
I’ve been trying to write a poem about teacups tipped back and forth to the lips
He did his laundry after like thirty seconds after and then we got food but before that he stood on Davie and asked the empty air where’s the cheapest place and then he walked two steps behind me
He had only been at that dance class to pick up girls he was English tall sandy-haired very handsome
I’ve been trying the poem won’t come easily
Before I begin I must attend therapy excuse me I must recall that the ways we express and receive love in romantic relationships are reflective of our parents’ love or non-love didn’t you know?
Yes but what about fucking?
My mother’s garden out front was lush and perfect but she still cursed at the dirt she’d yell sometimes let it echo out onto our quiet leafy street said get out of my sight but we watched her work anyway
I like to fuck a man who does not care for me particularly but it’s funny right excuse me
I met him in a dance class where he was there to pick up girls three days later I was outside his apartment my bike locked behind me
Before writing this poem I must reflect on my first fuck a boy named M who was tall and sandy-haired and very handsome I like to fuck a man who’s got some entitlement but it’s funny excuse me I skipped therapy today
Okay I was fourteen I just wanted to okay I mean my mom came to school drunk I mean, there are different ways of yelling I mean there are different ways to offer
I showed up outside his apartment without a bra on my nipples poked through my shirt he looked at my chest mouth pursed in concentration care to come up for a spot of tea?
When my mother got angry let’s say her phone wasn’t working she’d smash the object against the floor she’d yell on the carpeted basement floor my brother and I stacked legos
I will get to the fucking soon I must first recall my high school boyfriend C and how it was kissing him lush and perfect lush and perfect
No it wasn’t the hormones it couldn’t be nostalgia I mean my mother never wanted me I mean she said this I never wanted you but it was spoken into my mouth
Through C’s mouth lush and perfect
There are different kinds of gifts
He was kissing me right away it was quick I liked his lips I liked his tongue I liked his taste I liked his hands on my breasts right away no bra no buildup I liked my body as the teacup from which he sipped
Yes it was in this lifetime that I was sixteen in C’s room didn’t you know?
I will get to the fucking soon this poem won’t come first I must think of every man I have not wanted to kiss let alone fuck or perhaps wanted to and then suddenly mouth on mouth did not their slack faces their lips rimmed with crust or beer or whiskers wet with spit I’ll list them
B R I H S L L A J J R F U C K I N G
I’ve been trying to write a poem about pleasure about needs and wants and desires I’ll list them one to be fucked properly two to be a girl loved by a mom three to be fucked properly
He was English tall sand we fucked it was done properly
There are different kinds of safety
I biked home and thought about deep sea divers under too long I wrote this in my journal deep sea divers under too long I wrote this in my journal I am scared of my own need
I biked home and I listened to music I thought I was just fucked properly!
Before I must his kisses were lush and perfect I stayed over at C’s house a few nights when things were hard at home or I didn’t want to go okay
When he hurt my feelings our third and final time I was pinned beneath him I told him he’d hurt my feelings and he smiled teacup lips
I’d shown up outside his place in a shirt where my nipples poked through he was suspended above me coloring book mouth you squeezing my biceps right now is apology enough okay
He was English tall sandy haired very handsome great biceps
There are different kinds of apologies
Before I must there are yes I am crawling along the carpeted basement floor yes I am looking for my mother’s love yes didn’t you know there are lush kisses and there are perfect fucks and there are quiet leafy streets yes okay my knees are bruised
Veronica Ciastoko is an emerging writer originally from the Midwesten United States who now resides in British Columbia, Canada