Shaken Soda Bottles
I asked her what love felt like,
and she shook her Fanta bottle until
orange bubbles grew
like clementine’s on a bush.
She opened it with no fear,
while I closed my eyes and turned away –
the bottle burst,
orange droplets falling
from the sky like the sun
was melting with warm butter
on a skillet. Fizz spilling
over like a bubble bath,
my fingers sticking
together – I thought my toes
would be orange forever. Staining
the sidewalk with our footprints
until 4 o’clock, when the rain
was scheduled to wash away
the mess and chalk drawings
we had made.
It feels like that!
She answered with a big smile on her face
And those clementine’s on the corners
of her split ends.
Swallowing Fishes
Kissing you is like swallowing a whole fish –
tasting everything your tongue touched that day; your roommates
camel blues, sweetened tea, and that banana flavored
vape that I hate. Six weeks in I told you about how
I got raped by Jeremy Olds behind the bleachers
at the high school football state championships.
You told me I probably didn’t remember it properly
and I nodded and agreed with you.
Loving you is a bloody car crash –
fucking me raw in the backseat of your
car, you said I was lowkey annoying
on the drive back from my mom’s. She had
asked to meet you so we drove
four hours for a descent homemade dinner and brunch,
At least he doesn’t chew that snuff like your father did,
she said when you went out
for a cigarette break and that was the one
thing I gripped onto with white knuckles
towards the end. The soggy sheet stains walking
behind me while I peed after sex – popping
me open and crunching me with your
foot like I’m an empty beer can, whispering
so your roommates wouldn’t wake up,
You’re so fucking messy Soph,
and me throwing back,
And you think you’re any better?
Touching you is like licking a fleece sweater –
I was just a candle snuffer to your fury
and flame, I fucking despise you and your tattered
jeans that flake off in the dryer sticking
to my underwear – Our sheets mumbling
secrets beneath us. I sit here, peeling
myself apart like a 5-year-old tears
open an orange in the schoolroom cafeteria, choking
on my stringy bits just to please you.
Kitchen Sink Disposal
New Years, 2018.
You threw
your phone down
the kitchen sink disposal.
Centimeters from cutting
your fingers off, dad pulled
your left hand out before
the blades bit into your blood.
Spitting, screaming,
tongue as sharp as the shards of metal
like teeth hidden in the dark drain –
biting bitter breaths, standing
in the corner you said you heard the disposal taunt you –
begging breathless puffs asking for your fingertips.
Gurgling slimy bits of moldy mush
You said it was hungry for more than just clumps.
Mother began reciting the Hail Mary; father began pacing,
Tripping on the uneven floor boards in the dining room,
I stood staring down the kitchen sink disposal
thinking, maybe, you weren’t crazy,
just in a fair amount of pain.
Acorns
Even at the ripe age of 8, you liked to play god –
deciding which creatures to exterminate,
villainizing each one like you were an Australian hunting
a cane toad.
Vicious and unforgiving,
remember when, at 15, you said you were just as cunning
as god, and grandma splashed her vial of holy water on you –
you spit it on her face and she got on her knees and began
singing the Hail Mary. I’d never seen dad so angry
when he heard you pushed mom into the glass living room table
and punched a hole in the wall.
But do you remember those days before?
Snatching bits from the stubs
of grass dad had just cut,
acorns weighing down the buckets
spilling from our sweaty palms.
Mom would yell at us through the glass patio screen,
Leave those outside!
And we’d keep the full buckets on the wicker table.
In a few weeks worms would sprout
like weeds between concrete –
I’d watch them squirm around in my bucket,
before releasing them free.
You’d poor Epsom salt
on them and watch them contort and swell,
or squeeze them between your nails –
like someone popping a pimple –
I’d watch the white puss and blood swirl together
like a sickening cinnamon roll.
Even at the ripe age of 8, you liked to play god –
Oh god,
how I wished, I could dump the bucket and set you free.
Biographical Note: Sophia Ivey is a Senior attending Florida State University. She plans to go on to receive an MFA in Creative Writing. Her poetry revolves around addiction, mental illness, and the grittiness of everyday life. She enjoys spending her free time making jewelry and cuddling her cat Frankie.