This summer I have embraced my inner cliche and have reveled in timeless white girl teenage angst. I turned twenty a few weeks ago and feel less entitled to my griping, but then I stop caring and write some bad poetry.
I love writing bad poetry; I wallow in it like a pig in the mud. The fifteen year old Maggie is pretty amped. She wants to go smoke a joint and call Brian and tell him to bring a guitar. Twenty year old Maggie thinks that's a pretty dumb idea but whatever. I'll just share some poetry instead (and I still need my intros).
Drunk Write
Sort of like drunk talk,
drunk write is those letters you write that you’ll never send
and those poems you write you wish you never did.
It’s crying as you try to figure out how to tell your friend that you were wrong
or sending a note to ask “how do i know if i’m ready?”
It’s laughing too hard at what the bouncer said
and turning around when you want to pretend you didn’t hear your friend.
It’s blogging at 12:04 am before you go to the bar
to get even more drunk
before you make calls you’ll regret
before you call him and say i love you
before you vomit in the bathroom with your friend outside the stall asking if you’re okay.
It’s being too honest, too mean, too willing to dance.
It’s writing a poem about it with expectations
and gin in your mouth.
Oh god, oh god, oh god—
it’s realizing you’re that girl.
Drunk write is being a bottle of soda pop all shook up
and you’re ready to explode.
Poor Guinevere
Guinevere, poor Guinevere
Stuck in your house all day
With knights chasing cups
And Merlin calling you a slut
While your husband’s fucking his sister, the Fay
Guinevere, poor Guinevere
No woman would ever blame you—
After all, you were a virgin whose father
said “Why not? It’s no bother!”
Before Lancelot could say "I love you too."
Guinevere, poor Guinevere
We all know it isn’t fair
Knights keep kidnapping you
And Arthur (that dick!) keeps trying to burn you
And Lancelot pulls Elaines out of thin air
Guinevere, poor Guinevere
Your stepson really is a bit of an ass
He’s wrecking havoc wherever he goes
And where he’ll stop you don’t want to know
Everything’s starting to move a little too fast
Guinevere, poor Guinevere
Arthur has died because of you
Not for love for he never really did
But a man’s scorned dick just cannot be hid
And so now you’ll have to give up Lancelot’s too
Guinevere, poor Guinevere
A nun’s habit is not the worst fate
With daily prayers
And less, less, less cares
You’ll be fine once you learn to masturbate!
Cold
They say we are living in a digital world and I am a digital girl
with cellular pixels that are arranging and rearranging, shifting and shaping
into illusions for their screens but I don’t feel like hundreds of waves in a wire.
I feel like an ice cream sundae
made with pistachio ice cream skin
and chocolate sauce hair with a licorice belly button
and a maraschino cherry nose.
Caramel freckles with
chocolate sprinkles spattered across
and I’m melting into a crystal bowl with a silver spoon.
