"You Won't Abide, So My Fingers Will Have to Do" by Brielle Kelton

I just want you to touch me for more than thirty seconds. Pecks are for old people. Lingering hugs are great, but honestly, when was the last time you sat me on the counter and went down on me? When was it that we last knocked down pictures while you had me pinned against the dining room wall? When did libidos die and routine take over? You tell me that you're tired all the time, and weekdays just aren't for fucking. I'm far too reserved to tell you that I finger fuck myself every day. I can be sweet and horny. I can be demure and still need to be randomly nailed on the sofa. These things aren't mutually exclusive. Honestly, I'm never more lonely than when you're next to me on the sofa, asleep in front of the tv. I wish you could taste just how lonely I am.


"Secrets Aren't Always Terribly Exciting" by Brielle Kelton

You will find the smallest bombshells, the pieces of thoughts I've held from you. You will think I've fucked many people, though I never leave the house. You'll wonder why I haven't already left you. You will not be able to separate this from reality, which is that I'm boring, that I'm tired a lot of the time, that I wish I didn't have to work, that it actually hurts to stand up for so long every day. You will read everything once, and then pretend like you never saw a single word, curl up facing the wall and ignore me for a week until you come and and say, "Do you really hate me that much?" I will tell you that I live in more than one existence, that the places in my head are actually far more interesting than I am. I will rub your back while you say "Ok", and listen to you fall asleep before me. I'll write more tomorrow.

"Just Saying Hi" by Brielle Kelton

from across the room,

where my water glass

is more than half

empty, where my body

is too tired to rise,

and my stomach doesn't

care for me very much,

either. I can't write

every poem in a block,

and I can't know when

you might want to get

up and read, or maybe

want to fuck me, and

I suck at deciding what

we should have for

dessert, and I want to

be in love with you like

I used to, but I'm just

so tired of not crying,

and I want you to play

with my hair and tell me

that we're brighter than

the streetlights and the

light pollution, but all

I hear is clicking.