Untruths
BY MAYA HORN
I don’t think adults should be allowed to write poems about sex. I don’t like poetry about commodities I like poetry about treasures, and frankly I don’t think there is a single adult who appreciates sex like I appreciate sex but maybe I’m wrong
because I don’t think I know how to have sex I think I just know how to fuck - I’m a teenager and all I did for the past six months was fucking fuck or wish to be fucking and it didn’t happen in the moonlight and our skin wasn’t soft as silk we have acne and bacne and we don’t always smell great and sometimes we don’t have the money or the motivation to get condoms in the summer and we’re smarter than that but that’s just the truth of it. And adults get to have their own houses and backyards where they can throw away hours on foreplay and after play and looking at stars and have sex on tables and sex on couches and they get to go to sleep together and wake up together and have more sex in the morning and that’s just ridiculous. but sex isn’t like that when you’re young, sometimes it happens in a thirty minute window you negotiated out of your boyfriend because even though it’s summer we never stop being busy and you should be doing your summer reading and he has lots of bags to pack and people to visit and things to finish but nothing brings two kids together like the promise of sex, we love to talk or we love to pretend that we love to talk but at the end of the day we crave sex like it’s water even though sometimes it degrades rather than sustains but anyway he still has lots things to finish before he goes and you let him take the time to finish them because as long as he’s still finishing he isn’t leaving so it’s better. you get high because it’s summer and the days are longer and you see him when you can and as soon as your parents leave the house you let him know because it’s easier to fuck and not speak and not know what happens when autumn comes. my bed is small and it’s on wheels so it moves with us around the room which is silly and we’d probably talk about it if we weren’t trying so hard to have sex so that he isn’t late to the next thing he has to do, and it feels so good but then it ends and if we were adults I’d probably have white sheets and it’d be late at night and we’d drink some kind of tea and go to bed and wait for morning glow to wake us and reignite our flawless, timeless, endless love but instead we are children and he leaves my apartment just as quickly as he entered it. And I wish all this was true. I wish the sex hurt more and he wasn’t so kind and we didn’t nap after, because maybe I’d miss it less now. |