Joyce Safdiah

instead of holding

my fingers wove through trampled grass

at the creek you brought me to

hidden out on the side of the road

told me it was “make out creek”

like i’d kiss you again    for aptness of name

  watched me         twist and braid

                        the waxy green tendrils

splitting them          up the side

when i couldn’t tell you how i felt

                     i’d say it with my hands

you watched my mouth spill out


calling bullshit on every single one

you cried

            heavy pink and green greatlash tears

  tried to muster up water to my eyes

you didn’t know how much of an actress

      i always was

the typewriter in my head

plagiarized every movie

       we didn’t finish watching

couldn’t come up with an excuse

           good enough for you

sat there with a pile of grass

              wilted and torn on my lap

you wouldn’t let me walk away

           until i said it

Joyce Safdiah is a poet and undergraduate studying anthropology and communications at Purchase College. She derives inspiration from the everyday and her inability to be normal about anything. Her work can be found in the notes app, love letters to friends, and scrawled in bathroom stalls.