Jetlag
Tick, tock, the clock won’t stop
Oh my God! My eyes won’t drop
I washed my hair, said my prayers
Even microwaved my underwear!
I counted numbers, I counted sheeps
Beard of Zeus, I need some sleep!
The world is crooked, nothing is right
My instagram pictures have zero likes
My Facebook Status has zero comments
and my Tinder picture makes me vomit
The desktop clock reads 2AM
Yet, no slippery sluts sliding in my DM’s
I counted numbers, I counted sheeps
Beard of Zeus, I need some sleep!
Tick, tock, the clock won’t stop
Now my rock hard dick won’t drop!
I grab some tissues, and switch off the lights
And browse the web through my porno sites
I use my tears, cause I have no lube
As I stumble upon Elephant Tube
I pump it once, I pump it twice
And kept going till I felt nice
Now with all that gone, I’m relaxed
I’m ready to sleep if you ask!
I counted numbers, I counted sheeps
By the breast of Athena, I’m going to sleep!
Sorry. It’s the jet lag. I hope.
Maybe
“Same Seat?”
You nod as you make your way to the hidden crevice of the dimly lit diner. The waitress who no longer treats you with the courtesy of a guest, indicates the rapport built over countless amount of visits amassed over time. The seats squeak with joy as your familiar shape presses its weight on the cold brown leather surface. You slide the salt shaker between hands, back and forth, as the rhythm occupies the wait for your hot plate. The friction between the shaker and table scratching away at the itchy corners of your ear drum, as your head looks up. And then you blink.
You’ve been here before. Staring at the merciless eyes of infatuation as it occupies every inch of the heart you swore no longer functions after it’s last injury. Every inch of your pessimistic bones looks for any flaw that can save you from drowning in the sea of happiness, but to its dismay finds every inch of her face proportionately placed. Her hair tightly wrapped, as it if contained the very secret to her identity that is to be revealed only to those daring enough to free it. And then you blink.
Her skin is fair. Eyes childishly curious, yet fierce enough to indicate that her experiences in life were not of here. She pouts, as the cooks take their time, enjoying the spoils of the previous night’s baseball game. Then the food arrives. Her excitement comes quick as the flutter that enflamed you. She whispers that her food is not that great, as her two front teeth slightly angled hides behind her lips with displeasure. Her stern face, frowning wrinkles carries a delicate vulnerability. The kind not visible to the naked eye. The kind only visible to those who carry nothing less than purest of intentions. The kind that resembled a child ready to run into the deepest depths of your embrace at any notion of pain. And then you blink.
You go on a date or two. Maybe one. You’ve been here before. You know you’re going to fuck it up. The one date has its moments of brilliance but doesn’t prove to be all that romantic. Maybe its disappointing. She talks. She doesn’t listen. She shares. You hide. She’s playful. She pouts. She demands things, that require every inch of control to not give into. Maybe you hide the smirk that spreads across your face like a fever. Maybe her joy and excitement feels like a balloon. Dancing at the palm of your hands, tickling the lines inside until the feeling becomes too much to contain. Maybe you let it go to the vast skies of your heart as it roams free, bittersweet from her departure but glad to have held it at all. Maybe you’ll search your whole life for that same satisfaction. But she’s tough. You quit. And then you blink.
You look down at your empty plate, slightly dazed from your attempt to land inside of her cold chest, only to slip foolishly on the icy sheets of her heart. You shake your head, calmly smile realizing that this day was different. The seats squeal with pain as your familiar shape lifts its weight from the warm brown leather surface. You walk past her table. You open the door.
And then you blink.
Trouble.
Every morning at 6:15, I would walk under the dark sky to my bus stop. The air would be cold, often times stinging my exposed face. I would always wear a sweater or a jacket to endure the cold that only lasted from my walk to my bus stop, to my arrival at school. Then I would need to stuff it in my backpack and carry it around the whole day, or make the long walk to my locker to store it in there. This is the pain of commuting to a school 25 miles away from where you live. You catch a ride in an uncomfortable bus at 6:30 in the morning, trying your best to not bump your head on the window while dozing off.
I still remember the first day when I decided to skip school. I started my walk under the dark sky to my bus stop just like any other day, but that day stood across the street as I watched the bus I boarded often drive away. The present Ben probably would’ve warned the past Ben that he’s about to walk down a path that’s going to make his life that much harder.
Ditching school became a habit, and highly entertaining in the beginning. We were like an illegal racketeering group. Phone calls would be made in the morning to see what house was open for meetings. You had to be quick before the spots filled up, for other delinquents were searching for refuge away from their classrooms. Some would sleep, play cards, or talk about stuff that only matters when you’re kids. The conversations seemed so exclusive. Food tasted better when you’re eating during school hours without being in school. Stories were more interesting when you’re supposed to be quietly copying your daily agenda. You got to spend more time with your boyfriend/girlfriend, and if you didn’t have one, you hoped that your crush was there being just as daring as you decided to be that day. Everything seems perfect until your phone rings. It’s the one number you don’t want to see. Your parents.
Your brain starts to race. You start computing your best hypothesis on why you parents might be calling you during “school hours”. You wonder whether you should pick up and whisper that you’re in class, or say that you stepped out to answer the phone. You wonder whether you should let it go to voicemail. Often times, you choose the ladder. Then the phone rings again, and this time you know. You know, that they know, that you know and it’s time to man the fuck up. You ask for silence from everyone in the room, and you pick up the phone cautiously. By the first tone you hear from the dialer, you know that your lies are going to fall on deaf ears. Your 7 minutes in heaven are up, and you start to prepare for the monumental slaughter that will take place when you go home.
Some shrink to fear and some make the best of the remainder of the day. Everyone around you shows concern, but it quickly disappears as their relief of them not being in your position takes over. You prolong as much as possible, but the prodigal son must return home.
The footsteps are heavy, as you approach closer to your door step. You fumble your keys, gripping it tight. You stop in front of your door and try your best to hear what’s going on inside. You’re hoping to hear laughter, or something that relieves the tension you’ve acquired imagining various scenarios. No luck. You turn the key as it opens the door to your living room, as much it opens the top of Pandora’s box. Haha. Memories.
As I got older, I’ve walked down the same hallways. Dragging my heavy feet towards the doorstep of progress. Fumbling my keys, gripping it tight. I stop in front of the door, and try my best to hear what’s going inside. Hoping to hear something that relieves me of the tension I’ve acquired imagining different outcomes. And every time I fuckin fail in my life, make mistakes, stumble or fall, it’s not my parents that’s waiting on that other side of the door filled with disappointment.
it’s Me.