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Impromptu Poetry: Introduction to Trouble

When we first met, I said I knew you were trouble.

You asked me, how did I know?

I said I felt it in my bones.

You said, what does that feel like?

It feels like a splash of cold water to the face and hot coals on my feet all at the same time.

It feels like standing in front of a speaker and letting the baseline pulsate, vibrate and jump up and down inside your chest and loving the vibration.

It feels like lying to your mamma about why you came home so late, getting away with it and not feeling guilty.

It’s like stepping outside of an air-conditioned building and being smacked in the face with brutal, stifling heat.

It’s refusing to change your sheets after the earth-shattering love you made has long left the building.

It’s lusting for someone in the middle of church. Holding your legs together tight, and not praying for forgiveness.

It’s claiming someone else’s kid on your taxes and spending the refund on something outrageous that only satisfies and makes sense to you.

It’s leaving the last damn swallow of milk in the carton and putting it back in the fridge.

It’s laughing a bit when someone trips and falls.

It’s laughing so hard, you’ve peed a bit.

It’s having one more slice of tiramisu so, you know, it won’t go to waste.

It’s pretending you weren’t that drunk and just calmly excusing yourself to go throw up and return as if nothing happened at all.

It’s doing something you know you aren’t supposed to and deciding the ass whopping to come when you get caught will be as equally justified as it was worth it.

Yup.

You’re trouble.

And he said.

“Have a good day.”

“That’s how you respond to good-ass poetry?”

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