Porn
My boyfriend has informed me
That I don’t know what irony is
Because I make bad jokes
That don’t make sense to anybody but me.
Sometimes, not even me.
He has informed me that my poetry
Is full of nature
And that is ironic
Because I don’t go outside.
It’s too hot out there,
It’s too buggy out there,
But inside I write poems
About the sun I don’t bask in
And the seas I don’t bathe in
And the virgin snow I’ve seen maybe once
In a freak storm
When we had twelve inches on our porch
And all I thought about was getting laid.
I think about getting laid a lot.
When I am and when I’m not
And what code words I can use
So I can write about it in my journal.
I scribble letters on the corners of my pages,
Tattoo sex into the history of my life
Because I’m eighteen years old
And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to document
Getting a good shake-down.
Break it down into a play-by-play.
I make **** in my head
Because it’s blocked on my phone
And at least then I can star in it.
I practice with myself.
Sometimes I even love myself-
Until it gets weird,
Then I quit and watch Doctor Who,
Which is basically **** for my brain.
A few weeks ago,
I went into a lingerie shop
And would have bought a vibrator
If I’d had more cash.
I don’t understand why sex toys
Are so much more expensive than boys.
I thought their purpose was replacement.
It seems stupid to pay forty dollars for a toy
When I can get a guy for free.
Or occasionally a burger and fries,
Which definitely isn’t going to cost me forty bucks.
Maybe fifteen, if I’m feeling really frisky.
Even so, I was needy,
And if I hadn’t had only a twenty dollar bill
And my mom’s credit card,
I wouldn’t be writing this poem
Because I’d be in bed,
With myself,
Rediscovering why people like poems about sex.
Copyright © Carissa Marie | Year Posted 2018
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