Public Service Announcement 1: Dating is extraordinarily unpleasant.

I.

“What are you doing to me?”

My fingers flit
inside me, searching
languidly
for the answer

II.

I fear my own sangfroid
after years of burning cheeks
My inability to cry
My inability to scream
My inability to cremate
and scatter the ashes

I have grown so silent and polite

I have forgotten how to,

like a phoenix,

fall

all ablaze

a fury of frayed feathers

and rise as elegant and reckless as before

I hover, stubborn

and bleeding

too numb and stuffed

with pride to finally die

Public Service Announcement 2: The more you know, the heavier the responsibilities of choosing.

III.

I feel so incredibly sexy

in my black stiletto boots

I feel so incredibly silly
in my king sized bed

Public Service Announcement 3: I am nearing the point of believing that the energy expended on cultivating romantic and sexual interactions with the opposite sex is a supreme waste of neurons. Surely, my neurotransmitters yield more for their work when focused on making art. The predicament is, if I abandon matters of the heart for more practical pursuits, I may find myself short on material. As my optimism parades its autumn colors, I must investigate new thematic movements.