THE KIND WITH SUBTITLES
Let’s turn our attention back to the lovers—
naked, on the back of a Harley.
Fresh from my body and onto your plate.
The lady will have a bowl of gin, no ice.
Don’t mention it, baby.
I wonder, who owns that moon?
Woman like that, make you forget about Hiroshima.
All you have to be is quiet and willing.
I don’t live there anymore, but it’s where I’m going to die.
* This poem is composed entirely of quotes from The Kids in the Hall, seasons 1-5
WHEN YOU GROW UP, YOUR HEART DIES
You know this better than I do—the blackening of everything. The house is too big and she doesn’t love you. There are late night swims and walks to the park and leftovers and gum and bad TV and she doesn’t love you. Instead, give all the dried up nothing to some other girl. Hold out your hands and say you’ve been beaten, say, Pet me, or euthanize me. Mean it. Make her cry for the first time knowing this will happen again. Her body is a halfway house, is the best place to rest your weary head until it isn’t anymore. She’s sorry, she’s sorry, she’s sorry. But you’re a wolf, or something stupid. The metaphor is about blood and teeth and skin and death and she’s a deer and this is the end: the referee holds your fist in the air again—how good it must feel to ruin, to rip apart from the inside.
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Lauren Badillo Milici is a Jersey-born, Florida-raised poet and writer currently based in Brooklyn. She is the author of FINAL GIRL from Big Lucks Books. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. @motelsiren
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image: MM Kaufman
Rejection Letters 