Thanksgiving

After dinner, my father asked me
if I had a “type”, and I could have said yes,
I have an agonizingly predictable soft spot
for long-legged girls with flaxen hair
and eyes as steely and brilliant as bluefish,
girls who crash their mouths into mine
like bumper cars and smirk as they cup my crotch,
girls whose fingers cut paths through my hair,
who aren’t as tough as they seem, who use me
to forget about their boyfriends for a little while,
long enough that I stop remembering
that I wasn’t made to be loved fully, that I
am a willing and desperate distraction, that I
am only keeping their beds warm until the other men
come home and I am just a secret they’ve covered up
with makeup, but instead of all that, I hung a crooked
semi-smile between my cheeks and told him no,
the lie slipping as carelessly through my teeth
as I love you from your pale lips.

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One thought on “Thanksgiving

  1. This one, not to say the others aren’t, is incredible. Short ones have a way of either working wonderfully or sucking profusely, but this one is neither, it’s above both. Fantastic! Love the wrap around, the full circle, the not forgetting the opening. Love the imagery, love the ballsiness of it, the in your face attitude and the just slightly subtle hint of desire beneath it all, the need that can’t be filled. Powerful.

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