Poetry Finalist Addison Peacock

Aug 13, 2016 by

Poetry Finalist Addison Peacock

Love Does Not Look Good on Me


Love has never blinded me,
But it doesn’t quite match my eyes.
And I hate the idea of a naked infant
aiming an arrow at the meeting of my thighs.
Love does not look good on me.
It looks like tracing the contours of a face I should forget
On the empty pillow catching my breath.
Remembering how he
liked his girls clean and fresh;
newly sprouted from the virgin soil,
soap commercial baby powder pretty.
I was a bon-bon girl begging:
Chew me up!
Kissing your lips with
reverence as you spat me out.
I am a
sister to the great wide infinite mystery of the world,
barefoot tree-climber,
operetta diva in the theatre of my bathroom
ringing out notes too high to snatch out of the air.
A butterfly with titanium wings defying gravity
with every fierce flap until I burst through the atmosphere —
Fire and fury and painful promise.
You can’t touch me,
you can’t even catch my shoes as
I kick them into the dust I left behind.
My love is private, tucked away,
Balled up in the false bottom of
my sock drawer like a well-kept secret.
For me and only me to unfold on a Sunday afternoon
and drape lazily over my shoulders with the dappled sun.
There is a chance the kind of love that shares
an ice cream cone kiss,
That soaks the sheets and puts
the humming of bees under your skin,
Is just too big for me right now.
Like my mother’s wedding dress, I’ll grow into it.
But it doesn’t hurt my tender heart to admit,
That like short hair and bright yellow dresses,
“in love” is just another look I can admire from afar
but never quite pull off.


Addison is a student in rural Virginia, where she spends her time writing, making hash browns, and holding long conversations with an orange cat named Pumpkin. 

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