Objet d'Art

Good lives make bad stories.—Will Toledo

1.

My best friend really is a work of art—
the architecture of her vertebrae,
her bones like stilts we fear will fall apart
but don’t. Inside her van, thoughts ricochet
but chocolate milkshakes thick in plastic straws
retain our silence. Women with gray hair
walk through the parking lot, talk menopause
too loudly, joke of having an affair.
My best friend cocks her brows; I check my phone.
A faceless man cries, “Please, something to eat!”
I watch her. Does she also feel alone,
or is it only me, or does the heat
explain the glossy chasm in her eye?
I want to tear apart the peach-stained sky.

2.

I want to tear apart the peach-stained sky,
my blistered fingers twitching as I shred
it into curly strips. I don’t know why
I’m always like this, or what lies ahead
for girls like me. I never seem to grow
up. Example: almost 23,
still lusting after rock stars who don’t know
their sharp and track-marked arms cure my ennui
when I pace in the darkness. Can I scream,
let down my hair on starless summer nights,
paint my face with orange the way I dream
of? Or drift through space on satellites?
I’ll tell myself that nothing matters here,
it doesn’t matter if I disappear.

3.

It doesn’t matter if I disappear
the time some guy slurs, “God, you’re hard to read.”
I’m seventeen, untouched, and I can hear
blue sirens, trap music. I see a bead
of sweat fall from his forehead, and he smirks,
“It’s seven inches, at least. Want to take
a picture?” The real tragedy? This works
on some girls. Not asleep but not awake,
we kiss behind the frat house, in the alley,
swimming in a sea of crushed Budweiser
cans. If this is TV, the finale
shows me, a girl with no one to advise her
as she drifts through smoke that smells like stale sin.
I wonder when my real life will begin.

4.

I wonder when my real life will begin.
Has it already? I’m a bloodied fist,
my knuckles peeking through the walls, my grin
stretching out in the summer. I insist
I’m happy. I am, really. Cheap Moscato,
brie, and berries fill the fridge. I spend
afternoons downtown, eating gelato
from the creamery. The only friend
I need is in my skin, wearing my name.
I won’t discuss my sadness anymore
(even in poems) or relentless shame
that once was drunk and sloppy on the floor,
convulsing. After all, there’s no more pain.
I say this regularly to my brain.

5.

I see this regularly in my brain,
a fantasy more fascinating than most:
two cute Alexises in lawn chairs feign
annoyance when bombarded by a host
of suitors clad in velvet jackets. This time
no men who leave without an explanation,
whose words ignite your cheeks like booze and lime:
“You’re free. Don’t talk to me again.”Vacation
homes in Greece. Alexis clones will flaunt
their swimsuits. Courtney once said, “you don’t need
beauty to fuck anyone you want.”
Remember that. Remember you’ll succeed.
You’ll cruise with class, an overflowing wallet,
you’ll find true love, or lust, whatever you call it.

6.

You’ll find true love, or lust. Whatever you call it,
it kills you with its filthy melodrama!
I grab my shaky larynx, and I haul it
into the garbage, nauseous from the trauma
of being so disposable. I’m fighting
the urge to whisper platitudes, to speak
in riddles like I always do when writing.
This constant posturing is a technique
I’m starting to regret. It takes its toll
on you—the achy smiles, the Believe in
fate, things happen for a reason, soul
mate crap. What was I ever doing, even?
I should have been more honest from the start:
are any of us really works of art?