Chest Hair

A few weeks back, my Russian had a long chest hair. I think it might have been one of his first ones. His best friend saw it, because I asked him to look at it. I was excited by the one hair because it makes me think about potentialMy Russian seemed uncomfortable with the hair, and so I plucked it with my finger tips. Then he exclaimed that maybe it would be the only chest hair that he’d ever have. I shook my head at him and kissed him, a sign not to worry so much about it; that I didn’t care about the hair or no hair on his body.

In my dream, he had a full chest of hair. Long, dark curls covered him. I was grossed out and asked him to get rid of it. He wouldn’t. Instead, he showed everyone his hair and was holding a grudge with me for pulling that one hair. He beamed at what he looked like now.



The Play

My Russian was in a play. The stage was light brightly. He was rolling in bed with a blonde woman, a cheat I had not expected. I asked him why he decided to cheat on me. He claimed that he wasn’t. It was a play, and he was only acting a part.


Doll Theft

I was with my Russian. We were at a church setting, a gathering, but it was actually at the college I graduated from. There were many people there, and they started to talk about abortion. The people were going to show what abortion actually did the body of the fetus, but my Russian stole the doll from the speaker. He started to run away with it. I ran after him and was yelling at him, my attempt to persuade him to return the doll. I didn’t want him to get arrested for such a thing as stealing a doll. My Russian ignored me but a guard finally did stop him. The guard was standing on a deck that curved around sharply. The guard was holding a paper bag in his hands. The bag had a burger in it, and my Russian finally dropped the toy and he didn’t get arrested for petty theft.


Showing You My Pain

​I thought the sound of my voice would puncture my ear drums,

But still
You did not hear me
I thought I could call you
But you do answer your phone
I thought I could write you
But you do not respond
On your time is when I have you

I thought I could make you feel my pain,
So I grabbed you and held you close to me
I closed the physical gap between us
But you never felt my pain
You never heard my pain

I decided to make you see it
I sliced my skin open
I let the wounds bleed
But you never saw the red

Scabs formed,
And I took your hands to my wounds
You caressed my punctured skin
But you never felt my pain

I let myself die the last time in your arms, and when I died, I stopped caring about showing myself to you

I walked away from the only person I cared about more than myself. I’ll never know if you walked out after me or simply watched me walk away while you held my broken heart in your hands, still oblivious to my pain.

Why I Smoke

When I miss you, I smoke.
I let the cigarette linger on my lips,
A reminder of your taste.
I hold the smoke in
And keep holding until I can bare it no longer.
I slowly exhale and wonder about you.
Where are you?
Making me guess, I think makes you feel powerful.
More like a man,
Taking care of business
But my heart should be your business too,
And more so than the chasing game.
I miss you, and so I smoke.
And hope the fire scorches my lungs until I can no longer breathe
Because not breathing is better than the absence of you.