Curiouser and Curiouser...

When my relatives start asking me why I haven’t found a nice boyfriend yet

whatshouldwecallme:

I’m like, 

My weekend.

When I check my symptoms on WebMD

whatshouldwecallme:

First poem I wrote for my poetry class this semester.
I don’t care how cliche it is, I’m pretty fucking proud of it.
(Even though I don’t even own a corduroy coat…)

Not Just A Battle Scene

It’s November, and I forgot my hat.

The air breathes and exhales and yells.

Yells and cries, rushing, frustrated,

In and out and through my tangled mess of hair.

Wind hair is much worse than hat hair…

Tugging at my wrists, wringing around my neck, circling through my fingers,

Like cold, lonely jewelry.

It blows, slips, trips along the ridges of my corduroy coat,

But to no avail.

My coat keeps me safe.

My coat is worn and weathered.

My coat is cozy.

But my coat has a secret!

And in one desperate gasp, the struggling current of frigid air chances upon it.

I meant to fix that hole last spring…

It quickly fills my warm fabric fortress, then becomes suddenly still.

No longer rushing.

Hovering patiently and silently and icily against my skin.

I suppose it is waiting to be warmed. 

Or loved.

Or something nice like that.

Why else would it be so harsh?