Sour Tuesday Nights

sweet like cinnamon he 

singed me like the red tickle

of a lighter flame

his bony fingers run across my thigh his

loud laugh sung through a rotting bedroom

sweet like an addict’s Sunday morning cigarette he

gawked at jazz music like a child he

wore a hoodie with holes in it and when he

held me i could hear the wheeze in his lungs

sweet like this song stuck in my head he

made me tea and mixed in a spoonful of honey he

showed me his film camera he

hummed to me when i woke

sweet as the nectar of a periwinkle he

held me in the kitchen as i spread jam

on toasted bread he

covered me with a gray blanket before

letting out a cloud of smoke he

lit his midnight joint and

kissed me between inhales

sweet as the stars in a city sky he

offered me the thrill of San Francisco

through whispered stories under the dim lighting of

the stained kitchen he

waved his hands in the air he

found my face he

put his nose against mine

sweet like the first rain of spring he

held my hand down the hallway he

drank box wine through the night he

was sour his skin was rough

sour like a two hour sleep he

twisted me until my skin was white

and tight he

spit on my shoes

sour as a squished bee on pavement he

yelled at his mother he

called me garbage and lied

through his teeth he

bit me until i bled he

taught me how to play Heartbreak

on my soul’s violin

sour like a Tuesday night my brain spilling through

the barrel of a pen

an attempt to forget always

leads to the regurgitation

of the past he

chewed me up and left me

buried me in the dirt he

tucked me in

before he

left

Joscelyn Beebe is a creative writing college student and has been writing since the fourth grade.