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Behind The Eight Ball
His chapstick soft lips
Distracted me
From the perverse taste
Of stale cigarettes
He inhaled
Between every other word
But it didn’t
Make my sagacious heart
Uneasy
He was winsome
With that throaty laugh
After years of smoke clouds leaving his body
He even had
All the prominent tattoos and piercings
To make me question my self worth
Like if I was pretty enough in person
If my curves were perfect
And if not
Would my intelligence
Make up for
Those missing check marks?
Instead
I was sinking in my chair
At dinner
Endlessly circling
My glass
With my straw
While he had
the best conversation
With himself
About why his car
Is scarred
With multiple bullet holes
All the
Faces he left dripping in blood
Resulting in handcuffs
The way he can’t function
If his head
Was not filled with dope
I could feel the sadness
Drag its nails
Across my eyes
Leaving
A scar
Of realization
That I would never
Be able to share
The joy of my writing with you
Or the band
That inspired me to write
In the first place
What about how
You would never ask
How I’ve come to see love
Yet how ironic
you wanted to take me to play pool
After dinner
Because love
Has always
Left me behind the eight ball
And your presence
Your undesirable disheveled
Absent minded presence
Left me
In a tight corner
With no way out each game
Not in a heart racing from the thrill
Cheeks are flushed
Kind of way
A stare
In the mirror once I’m home
In incredulity one
Because I used to forfeit
The best parts of me
To men like you
Copyright ©
Ali Lynn
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