Fuck Yeah Slam Poems! | Exit Here.: Reprise: For Lone Girls Who Have Attempted Suicide.

Exit Here.: Reprise: For Lone Girls Who Have Attempted Suicide.

By Jeanann Verlee.

One your first date, do not hand him your vagina, polished and thirsty. Do not allow him to rub your back or your shoulders. Do not overdrink. When he offers to come home with you, do not think of your ex-lover’s chest. How it peeked from behind the open neck of a pressed J. Crew buttondown. How you still masturbate to this. Over dessert, do not think how smooth this man’s thighs will be. Do not think how lovely their dark will lay against your sheets. Do not ask to touch during sleep, it smells like love and you have a suitcase to unpack. You have laundry and dishes and a dog to walk. You are busy. Stay busy. Don’t muddy your days with honey whiskey. When the boy at the club buys you a beer, yanks you hard from your disappearing waist, remember you owe no one. Even if he is all your favourite music. Keep your tongue inside your mouth. Stop his wandering hand even if it’s the only thing good in New York City tonight. Say no. When your boss suggests you meet Nate from Accounting who is recently divorced, say no. Say bones break. Say love is expensive. Remind him you have a dog and no time. You’re busy. When a friends explains, women have children at 45 these days, girl, you’re good, smile. She is lying. Press her rosewater skin under you nose. Press hard. Pretend it is the skin of a newborn. Steal this moment. She won’t mind. When Friday finally arrives and your friends leave early, let them go. Keep your tab open. The bar has been your longest friend. Churns out warm bodies like a factory. When the bar closes, remember, you are busy. It’s time to walk the dog. When you dress for your first date in two years, don’t call it date. Call it friend. Do not let him pay. Share a bottle of your favourite wine, you deserve this. When the wine makes words slippery as butter, tell him everything you shouldn’t. Your diagnoses, how you have no insurance. Count for him all the men you used to escape your husband. The time you almost got a boyfriend arrested on West 4th Street. The tryst with a colleague. Describe the miscarriage at 13. Abortion at 25. The train engineer you fucked in Penn Station, how his son had Leukaemia. Tell how you waited six hours at a roof party in Brooklyn one summer just to take the drummer home. How you ran into that drummer weeks later and couldn’t recall his name. Carefully detail your unending appetite for drink/fuck/fight, everything nasty you keep under your skin. Do it precise. When he runs from this quiet grenade, find the bar. Tell yourself you did it for his sake. Besides, you’re busy. Smoke another cigarette. Take another honey whiskey. Let it curdle your face. You haven’t been beautiful in years.