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
excuses
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.