Blacker than Las Vegas, she slept on my chest and drooled all over my heart. (I don't want to be metaphorical or poetic right now. I want to tell the truth.) She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. It's not about poetry.
She coughed up hairballs on the carpet and licked herself all over. Her tongue felt like the moon and I know this because she licked my face like it was a hobby.
Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved.
I couldn't tell if she felt the same way about me. Sometimes I'd see her rub up against the leg of the chair and she looked happy. But she never bit me no matter how many times I forgot to feed her. Sometimes, late at night, she would lie next to me, her head resting on my arm, like we were cuddling, like we were in love, like our lungs were learning to share.
Her name was Midnight
She got diarrhea when we drove too long in the car.
and she was the first girl I ever loved.
I'm not superstitious, but I needed her to fall asleep. Part nightlight, part bedtime story, part sleeping pill. (I don't want to be poetic. I needed her in order to fall asleep.) She had nine lives but nobody knew how many she had left.
Her name was
(whistles and kisses and whistles)
She got hit by a car, but I didn't want to believe it. I was on the porch like,
(whistles and kisses and whistles)
She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. (I'm not being poetic. I'm just telling the truth.) The truth is that the cat's name wasn't Midnight. It was kitty. (My sister and I couldn't decide on a name, so we just called her kitty.) I was on the porch like "Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty." It was like we didn't even know each other.
Her name was Midnight
I didn't come here to talk about cats. The last cat I owned crapped on my bed, so I gave it to the pound. I'm not a sentimental guy. She's just another dead cat on the side of the road. The truth is that Midnight wasn't really a girl. She was a boy. I was just ashamed to admit that I was sitting on my porch for an hour waiting for a boy to come home, because I loved him more than anything.
The last line. Whole last paragraph actually. And you should have come last night. I read. I got third :) And Charles read a letter to you. And it was good.
ReplyDeletei cant tell if im sad that you missed out on seeing the poetry slam, or if im sad that the poetry slam missed out on seeing this.
ReplyDeleteor both.
yeah, both.
This really hits home for me. Just saying.
ReplyDeleteHahaha This is just the weirdest thing ever. I really wish people wrote like this more often.
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