Two Poems
For My First Boyfriend, Who Wanted Me to Write Him a Love Poem
At fifteen, my first boyfriend
forced an earthquake
into my foundation. Entertained
by the idea of manipulating the body
of another for his own amusement,
he scooped me up in his arms,
ignored my kicks
and protests, and discarded
me in a blue trash bin.
I folded like a heavy book, an empty
beer can, a pocket knife.
He stood over me with his phone,
photographing despite my pleas
to get me out.
My spine
emerged
a bone serpent—
hydra of vertebrae.
For each pain I suppressed
enough
to sleep,
I woke with two more.
He never hit me but he wanted to.
His fists twitched
with the thought
that he could possibly
beat sex from me
since I wouldn’t let him buy it
with expensive gifts. The same hands
that bent my spine into a reptilian
column struck
out at air like rattlesnakes,
excited by the thought
of prey
so close, yet he did
not aim for a
kill.
For Valentine’s Day, he asked me
to write him a love poem.
I was too scared
to say no.
When I sat at my desk,
a snake came.
It punctured my lumbar
with its egg tooth
and nested,
in my coccyx,
birthed a false
and fractured lyric.
He knew the poem I gave him
was without heart.
We lay
on his bed and watched a Chris Rock
movie. This time,
he did not
try to fuck me.
I am trying to consume my vestigial
tail. Six years have only made the pain
worse—
a crumbling temple
of the sacral fulcrum
where I find minor relief
in half-folding,
self-prayer.
My curling
is not fetal,
but a full-body fist.
Instructions for the Girl Who Dares to Go Out Drinking Alone
If you wear anything at all that even hints at the shape of your body underneath it, you will get hit on.
When he whispers in your ear,
tells you you’re the best dressed
at the bar, and that he’d love
to see the full view,
say “no, but thank you.”
When he sits down next to you,
tells you your drink choice is great,
that girls taste better with tequila
in their breath, asks if you want
to find out what he’s been drinking,
say “no, I’m not interested.”
When he puts his arm around your waist,
tells you you’re the best dancer,
and that you really know how
to shake your ass, then slides
his hand into the back
pocket of your jeans,
say “no.”
What you don’t want to do is offend him.
When pushes you into a wall
grabs your breasts, presses
his hot groin against you,
tells you he can’t help himself,
tells you he wants you,
tells you, he is going to have you,
say nothing.
Become needle nose pliers.
Extract his rotting pink leech
of a tongue, wave it in his face,
throw it on the concrete.
Flatten it beneath your boot.
Become a claw hammer.
Splay his fingers on the table.
Bust his nails, break his joints,
drag the skin and muscle
out of his palm.
Become a buck knife.
Castrate him like a goat.
Peel away his scrotum
like a soft-boiled egg,
and crush his never-to-be-born
half-children in your fist,
his sick seed oozing
out onto your knuckles.
Nicole Byrne suffers from a crippling addiction to poetry. She self-medicates with copious amounts of black coffee, avocados, hot sauce, and rock ’n’ roll. The treatment does not appear to be working and she hopes it never does. She is currently based in Kansas where she is an MFA candidate at Wichita State University, but her heart remains in Maine. Her work has previously been published in Words Dance, Emrys Journal, and Sunset Liminal. Find her online at and on Twitter @nicolebyrnepoet.