by Isabel Lee Roden
I Never Used to Like Parties, but
I’m lying on the floor in a room with a couple of safe people who should probably know better
And we are tired, worn the fuck out
desperate for one sweet second of empty-headed luck
My roommate makes margaritas in the kitchen and I can almost imagine there aren’t consequences
to this two hour window of “I’ll deal with that later”
These days I’d do just about anything to get away with recklessness
I’d almost kill to nurse a hangover all day long
curl around my sick, sorry self in bed relish nausea’s presence like a lover’s too-balmy embrace What I wouldn’t give to lock eyes with someone beautiful
from across a room half-lit by smoke
and inhale them with the haze
I’d go sleepless for a week to go out wearing the kind of dress
I have to tug at the hem and neck of all night
I would spit in God’s face
without fear for one ill-advised kiss
God, I’m twenty-one isn’t saying that supposed to make me feel young?
There must be a young, selfish me screaming
I don’t want to know better anymore, but
does anyone feel young tonight?
I don’t want to be those people but
God, I’m only twenty-one God, I want to stop wishing and waiting to make mistakes
God, Aren’t I too young to be so tired?