To Juan in Kappa Sigma
Michelle Greenblatt
you are short but you don’t know it, there is always
a Bud Light in your hand, you are always talking among
friends, one hand in your pocket,
balled into a loose fist. I sit on the big red
couch by your side then follow
you around, vaguely, like a bleached-out shadow. I would like
your attention, or most of it. I couldn’t ask, please would you
validate my existence; that never goes over well, it sounds desperate.
I danced the other night, had to get drunk to do it. I didn’t care though.
I just puked into the toilet, four times, tasted Jager in my nostrils, then fell
backwards on my ass in the women’s bathroom in your
frat house and there was no one in there to help me up.
I know you don’t understand, I don’t have a home, there’s no water
pressure in my shower. That’s what makes me cry.
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