Roots Run Blonde

i have cracks in my stories

large enough for me to hide my shame

along with my bus bound anxiety

the muscles crave something more

than the stomach i have

that is only fueled by teenage angst

good listeners are like a rare blood type

you could be dying

but without them there is no treatment

i pick flowers like some people pick their friends

delicately from the root never halfway up an elongated stem

keeping the roots give them time to live

there’s a boy with an eye patch at the very back

he seemed endearing but I’d always had a thing for the weird ones

i look back again

the patch was on the other eye

i see what you did there

tricking me into thinking there was so much more

than some punk who lights fireworks the night before the 4th

sounds like gunshots in front of my bedroom window

when i’m trying to control the cloud of angst above my head

towards the front of the bus was an older man

when i say older i mean older than me

not older than my mother

but thats all she can complain about

the fact that she’s old and im growing up

and my ability to manipulate

i think he was staring at me

not obviously but when someone is staring you can just tell

the eyes linger on your skin like the peach fuzz riding along for the ride

i’m usually used to men staring at me

their gaping middle aged mouths salivating over my “not so traditional” beauty

or from my perspective, lack thereof

honks as i hang out the window with my camera

trying to get the sunlight through the effortlessly full clouds

an svu in four-wheel-drive drives by with gorillas beating their hollow chests at me

but this one was different

he didn’t stop me in front of a brewery hostess during open mic night

and he certainly wasn’t over the age of 43

he was dirty but not in the houseless sort of way

not like a construction worker either

he had an unruly beard described like the wildman scene in Dead Poets’ Society

he did not YAWP though

he didn’t say anything

he looked at me for a while and then didn’t

maybe he wished he were next to me ignoring someone elses stares

maybe the aisle was a ravine with pointed stalagmites threatening his ego

i would have crushed him…probably

but i didn’t give him the chance to be under my sandal

my stop was coming and i was going to meet some new stranger

have them wondering what i’m like

i looked him straight in the eye and smiled

maybe even fluttered the hint of baltic european i have

and walked right off the bus

through his wildman beard he tried to utter some silly little thing to get me to stay

he tripped over his tongue and saliva ran down his chin

before it fell on a newly developed mountain in his pants

Reviews

[Kleio13]

Your'e very right, good listeners are a rare blood type.