Poetry
[ Alexis Rhodes ]

Why I Carry A Lighter

Each day 
I play-flip the lighter between my trembling fingers
debating a flick toward your outstretched cigarette.
You love to hold it close and ask for a light
then pull back and say
“I should really quit.”

I stand under the building awning, waiting
for your cab. Shaking from
cold raindrops that never meet my skin.
I asked last night to meet me here and you said
“I’ll try”
said
“I’d love to, but.”
I brought an extra pack of Marlboros just in case
even though I knew…

PING.
“Can’t make it this time, but do tell me how it ends.”

Oh, it’ll end.

We don’t need to set this house aflame
but don’t tease me with your time and nicotine
I don’t even smoke and yet
I carry a lighter just for you.

Cereal Milk

The blood rushes, steam-heat to my face
when I press Send.

I’ve drawn a circle around my body, not in sand
but in wet cement this time.
Don’t cross unless you want to lose your shoes.
I’m not moving one more inch.

I refuse to hold space for both of us
I’d written.
If you want me, meet me where I am.

Flames claw inside my veins, kicking at each capillary
as I flush, hot mortification.
My sensitivity already anticipates
being told I’m unreasonable.
I am always too much.

A cereal bowl with too much milk
splashing over, infecting electronics and greeted by
“Oh, fuck!”
Frantic fingers straining to clean up my mess 
since childish hands were clumsy.
I hide my face in shame, in blame.

Hot tears.
Silly little streams onto
my 
stupid too much shirt.
I used to cry on you, but now I cry
from what you’ve pushed me to.

Alexis Rhodes is a queer, polyamorous poet, playwright, performer, and strategist based in North Carolina. Her poetry has been described as raw and confessional, with just enough humor to lighten the mood. Alexis lives with her husband, two kids, and a hedgehog named Hedge.