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Eloisa Amezcua | Electric Cereal

Author: Eloisa Amezcua

Eloisa Amezcua is an Arizona native and a recent graduate of Emerson College's MFA program. You can follow her on Twitter.


So we’re at it again: only talking
about sex like we’re having it.
One day you’re going to have
to say what happened
last September that changed
everything. Sarah mentioned
the police and you’ve talked about
lawyers and therapy,
but now, it’s sex. You tell me
you want to pull my hair and lick
my teeth, ask how I’d react
if you entered me from behind.
I reply, Come, probably,
and you’re unsatisfied
and I know that feeling
all too well. You say, Good
night, because it’s late and
you have to see Dr. So-and-so
in the morning. Plus,
the Ambien’s kicking in.
You’d taken it that time
you told me there were
chopped up strippers in
the mattresses at Hooters
Hotel & Casino. My feet
hurt and I can feel
the blisters on my heels.
I wore new shoes
all day because I thought
I’d run into you.


alone in a cab after a party.
I can tell you’re not surprised
by the way you reply, Cool,
after I say, I drank so much
rum. It tasted too sweet.
I bought it because there was
a billboard outside the liquor store
that said, “Change is Refreshing.”
I ask how you’re doing hoping
you’ll talk more and you say,
You know those days when
listening to your favorite
Springsteen song won’t make
it better, and I’m like, Those are
my everydays. I want
to take it back. The cab driver
gets lost and drops me off
six blocks from my house.
You haven’t said a thing.
I send you the only lyrics I can
remember: I swear I’ll drive
all night just to buy you some
juice. You say, It’s shoes, not juice,
and I think that makes more sense.