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message 1: by Heather (new)

Heather | 9 comments I DON'T LOVE MY LIFE BUT I LOVE YOU
-Heather Bell

I don't love my life. Your body is
the only noise over the Atlantic.
I forgive everybody quickly. You say
this makes me a counter-revolutionary.
I like it when we are sitting by the

television and you put your leg over my legs and you touch
one of my fingers. You can take various drugs in various ways:
injected, rectally, insufflated. Xanax, Hydrocodone, Entheogens.
You are wearing EMT pants and standing over me. We discuss
the uses of our parts:

the eyelid is to protect the eye. The eyelash is to protect
the eye. The tears are to protect the eye. The waves creep
to my window. The moon wears an LED headlamp, has
a screw-off throat like me, sleeps all day. My lips are at

your neck, it is romantic. My feet are bleeding on the rug,
I walked for days to get here, it is romantic. I am wearing
a Marilyn Monroe wig and touching the unmapped regions
of strangers. How romantic! How romantic to watch the
dust, our fingerprints flying around in the sun, our solar
debris. You tell me that I have a natural knack for survival

in bad conditions. The dishwasher chases me to the
front door and I kick it and I climb on top and touch
its spine and antlers. I gather the canned goods into
a pile. I remember naming my first stuffed bear "BJ"
and my mother was horrified and told me it meant,
"blowjob" and the image was so startling that all I could

think of for weeks was Magnum PI getting sucked off
by a two witless boys. It was either that or think of
what it really could be: to work and work and work for
years without a paycheck until your lungs explode from
breathing too hard.

I like my men like you like your vermouth, hard and sour.
We laugh about the things I say sometimes. You say,
"take off your clothes and dance," and I do and it

does not make me dream of lion-dogs holding me down or
the Ayatollah. I feel like I am getting somewhere, it's romantic.
I don't love my life, how romantic. I go berserk on your face
with my face, you laugh and say, "very dangerous."

If each woman's exhalation healed another woman, each
woman would hold herself in until she died. Each woman
would imagine a new and better-perfect woman stealing her
husband away, his bones soft with lack of use. His eyes

He smells of eucalyptus, as all men do in the genitals. Except
you. You always smelled of a warrior. Blood, saliva, boy-soldier's
hands who touched you before they told you where to find them
after it's over. I feel a little bit insane when I tell you these bits

of stories. You prefer the word "cranium," to "skull," which is
always somehow relevant. I lay on my pillow and you pull off
my dress and dip your cup. There is Pepsi all over my chest.
You feel like an airport, I want to say I'M SORRY. I love the baby

elephant of your laugh, the way it starts in the throat and is
suddenly ocean-bound, big and swimming and yelling for its
mother. You ask me if this is important, how romantic. I pull a
hood over your face and axe you in the heart, this is romantic.

How romantic, you are throwing me in the water, armless and
legless. We discuss the use of our parts again: the skin to
protect the muscle, the bone to protect everything else.

I wave like I have a really good 401k. How romantic!
How romantic, you came home with groceries and a WWII
helmet. We sleep the way a pack of wolves sleeps,

one is always on alert. We walk places like we are escaping
a sanitarium. "It's getting a little late," you say and it is, the
moon is palming her roars at the window, my eyes are dropping,
my Woody Guthrie suitcase is settling in for the night.

I tell one more story from my life and it ends with you undoing
my pajamas. We laugh, dextrose and morphine thinking about
having sex and then being too tired to think anymore. I do my
best Bill O'Reilly impression and yell that I love you and you hit me in
the face, delicately, with an elbow. As if to say, "how romantic."

Everyone always says that their love was like a fire that danced
so this time I will say that we just fell asleep, moved back and
forth for hours like stiff raw hands full of grief and frightened.

message 2: by Elizabeth (new)

Elizabeth | 2 comments I don't know you, but I love this poem.

message 3: by Heather (new)

Heather | 9 comments Thanks so much, Elizabeth!!


message 4: by Alexandra (last edited Mar 11, 2009 05:36PM) (new)

Alexandra | 8 comments this is great! I think you have a really original voice. It's long but it held my interest. Gave a strong and clear impression of how this relationship goes but using abstract tools. I am not so crazy about the title though, I wasn't expecting such a good poem from the title.

message 5: by [deleted user] (new)

I agree about the title ting. I thought it was a poem about suicide or something... no offense... thats just the honest truth.

message 6: by Elizabeth (new)

Elizabeth | 2 comments I like the title. Actually, it reminds me of the way I title some of my poems. To each her own. In a way, the title makes it. The rest of the poem is an illustration of the point the title makes.

message 7: by Nicole (new)

Nicole (Nicole88) | 6 comments Beautiful, raw poetry, very impressive stuff!

message 8: by Heather (new)

Heather | 9 comments Thanks everyone! The original title is actually ridiculously long and even more overly terribly sentimental, haha. I will work on it, though!


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