"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.