Author: Becky Riedman

Becky Riedman is a student at Oberlin College. She can be found on Tumblr and Twitter.

i wish someone would teach me how to go back to sleep

you wake with a sticky note on your

bare ass; it says “kiss me”

your oj tastes like stale beer

everything tastes like stale beer

you are overwhelmed with

meaninglessness

you divide this feeling by

the number of others that have also felt this way and

dissolve slowly into

eternity, like what have you done to “contribute”

to “civilization” and “progress”

if only this feeling could be enough

to put gas in the car and buy cigarettes

if only this feeling could call on a few favors

and get you an interview for that job which you will

inevitably come to hate

try to masturbate but can’t

cum because you keep seeing his face, asking

“where do you see yourself in five years”

“what’s the point”

“do you not love me anymore”

 

when you stare at any body of water

you can’t help but wonder

“how big of a rock do i need to really

fuck this river up?”

summer

most days i work —

whisper secrets to plants and

listen to book tapes

make and then remake

“easy” and “fun” to-do lists

which i lose before

completion

“take shower”

“put on clothes”

“buy white ceramic planter”

exchange gasoline for the illusion of

togetherness

(ascribing characteristics to

the drivers of Hondas

and Chevys

makes me feel

less alone

sometimes)

crack a beer

and then another

accidentally make

my mom cry

avoid facebook

and my phone

i am learning

how to be “an adult”

 

i am learning

how to be ok

with being

alone

hearse at the racetrack

many separate and distinct paths
when seen from a distance converge
to create a circle
an infinite loop lined with
rusting blood and
wilted party balloons

smoke clings to your shirt like death
as i am making you coffee in the morning
every time we die we come back
into a world of newer brighter colors

you have lived many lives by now
today you are quiet and observant
and humble; beginnings look
more and more like ends

cradle of dust in a bomb shelter
blood on the tracks you are passing
by without looking back

we experiment with cataloging our existence
bubble gum wrappers and
cigarette packs nailed to the wall in desperation
waiting for the dust to settle
so that we might catch our breath
waiting for the signal or that new messiah guy

it shouldn’t be long now