Sex-isms

Women are like chores,
easy ones get done.

Afterwards, it was awkward. We smiled
and she cries, “You never

take me
seriously.”

Waking up to the open refrigerator air makes
morning wishes for a carton of
milk without an expiration date—

which is pretty pointless
considering how quickly it goes,
but it’s a lot easier than
owning a cow.

I’m sorry I’m always tired.
I’m sorry for getting tired.

They say that orgasms will make you
believe in God, but, I don’t like ecstasy,
and already stomach enough guilt with the subject.

Some girls say I love you when they’re happy.
Some say they can’t come.

Both of us spent the rest of our lives
wishing that we never crawled out
of the bed;

where we made a mess
fingerpainting all night with our judgment
significantly lowered.

Other bedrooms get the best of us.

Terrified of our shadows we turn out the lights
and make love to blankets.

Your eggshell skin rolling onto the bed
with my cautious self. Who came first?

We’re both scared but you’re pretty
but you’re smart and smart girls scare me.

We drove home from the beach quiet,
grinding sand in our
teeth.

Timing is everything.

You praise the telephone and
everything that happened during the day
until the doorbell finally rings. Anticlimax.

Every man is God when he says things to get laid
and young girls swear by them and turn them in
to pillars of a faith.

Every girl is (becomes)
a planet, a country, a home.

And we’re all the bastard children of a
someone who doesn’t love us.