she's one of those types

that hunch over their laptops

at the shabby, local-owned café

because the computer is the only one who will listen,

the only one who will absorb her pain

without spitting it back out in her

fucking too-pretty face.

she's one of those types

who doodles on napkins

and who orders their whipped cream

with their hot chocolate,

and not the other way around.

she's one of those types

that is always hiding

her hands are fragile leaves, shaking in the wind,

as she reaches for her cocoa

never looking you in the eyes

because she is afraid that you will hurt her too

or, even worse, see right through her coy smile

and understand why she flinches every time he

purrs her name

she's one of those types

who wears turtlenecks and opaque tights

in the summertime, hoping to hide the bruises

that he inflicts every time he sleeps with the bottle

suctioned between his misogynistic lips

she's one of those types who will go quietly

because she bases her worth on his attention

and she's one of those types that will disappear

she drowned in his love-

a poison that had the bitter aftertaste

of cigarettes and cheap beer

11.9.08