Midnight Blue, like the crayon.A Poem by Molly DIt's well past 3 a.m. and I haven't gone to bed early, like I had promised myself. Instead, I'm up, writing poetry, thinking of ways to stop using "I, myself," and "me" so much in one line.
When it's late, quiet and cold like this, I end up contemplating all of my partners; their hair, their hands, their lips, their laughs, and what it is about them that makes my skin crawl. Usually I conclude that it's me, not them, that I loathe so much, until I remember that I'm great, funny, smart, and pretty, and it's probably just because I have divorced parents that I'm so fucked up.
Then I cry, and eat, and watch reality tv, and wait for someone to text my phone. They don't, and I feel friendless, so I compulsively check my online profiles and chat with acquaintences I usually don't think of.
Then, I remember: Oh, right. I'm always this f*****g moody at night.
© 2008 Molly DReviews
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12 Reviews Added on August 1, 2008 Last Updated on August 1, 2008 Author
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