pop
the broken hearts of all my best friends
make me want to write poetry like pop music
and all of their addictions, how much I love to fix them
the mother of all bombs, exploding in the distance
there are all these points in the page where I stopped
paused on a letter, made it pool full of ink
like when I’m drunk and all the blood pools in the tips of my fingers
the pounding pulse of the bass in the backseat of his car
when he’s drunk he loves me harder, loves me
like an ocean, loves me like he’s proud
the sin of apathy, that passing pin prick
I managed it, on my calendar
like a professional, careful not to damage
or destroy anything too great, my confession though:
those coffee grounds spilled on the floor
I did it and I didn’t clean it up.
I left it for you to step into the next morning.
coffee tastes like shit to me anyway, like it would to you
if you were ever awake when you drank it
[© 2010 Sophia Nelson]
