4-Act Tragedy | Requiem for a Fuck Buddy


This piece is two poems in one, starting with 4-Act Tragedy, followed by Requiem for a Fuck Buddy.

Performed at Blu Jaz Cafè for the Hit Refresh Poetry Slam, organized by Word Forward. Performance found here.


Apparently, it’s not enough to break my heart
by telling me that you wouldn’t ever date me,

(You grip the shards tightly in your broken fingers
and watch the petals fall in places where blood pools)

I bite into your poison apple and fall
under your intrepid curse,

(Hexed by desire,
I crash into the pavement,
shattering my glass slipper)

When you release, my skin melts
into your gunpowder lungs

(I hope you choke.)

In the final pages, Alice tumbles upwards back home

She claws at the dirt, her skin flayed and worn.

There is no place like home.

(There is no place like home.)

There is no place like home.

(Those words could not save her.)


I paint my lips red and your hands are closing
around the forbidden apple core

I lift my head to catch the seeds that

Fall from your trembling hands.

“It’s just this. Nothing more.” I say, smiling. You let go of my chest.


Suddenly, my heart was shattered just enough.


A picture frame hangs empty on your wall as you lean in to press me into it. Our bodies shatter against each other, your hand interlocking with mine and we lie wide awake, our backs to the stars and I wonder if this is all I ever will be.

“Come sit beside me.” Your hand coaxes me from my den and I crawl into your lap, my teeth sharp against your lips and you cave in around me, I nearly choke on your carbon dioxide.

You cock your gun and press it to my palm and say something about love. I understood none of it.

Friendship, you said, is a transaction. I agree mindlessly as you lift up my shirt, having asked politely. I can already feel tears in the corners of my eyes, having seen the future reflected back at me as I wash my face.

I guess it doesn’t matter what I am grasping at. It is not me who you love, and it will never be more than this. Already, I can feel the overflow of cheap beer and wet pavements, I already feel bitten into.

“You know I’d never date you, right?” You said, as you reach under my skirt for the forbidden fruit we were always afraid to confront. The tension collapses like a worn out dam, and your hand closes around mine and I press you into yellow pages, just in case.

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