Voicemail Poems

My mother calls them phases and maybe that's an accurate representation because they're lunar, edges of something, the kind of scrambling you do drunk in the dark. It's a lot of being drunk in the dark. I'm dying to discover myself and finally be cool. I'm smoking. I'm smoking hot. I'm a smoking gun. I went out one night and suffered through talking because I just wanted someone-anyone!- to fucking kiss me. The next day, I booty called Colin and took Jay home and kissed Emily and thought about kissing Jessica and I know I'm not falling in love with anyone but maybe just falling in love with touch? What is it when I dry hump the rug and watch porn and drink all the Elderflower Liquor in the cabinet? What is it when I let you make a home in the back of my throat? The thing is: I've got it all figured. Finally something to pass off as the truth. I'm just wrapped up in movement, in fingers wet hot small of my back smell like fir needles poking out of the snow. Touch me and touch you and it's a special thin