Why Did I Make You Breakfast In The Morning?
A boy with a chiseled chin and chocolate skin and Asian eyes let me sit on his lap one time at a game, where my tongue probably tasted like watermelon and rubbing alcohol, and the glittery cardinal and gold tattoo on my cheek tried to rub off on his but ended up on my ecru-colored pillow instead.
You were standing in the hallway and I was leaning, eyes and chest dripping red all over your fitted cap and fitted tee and fitted chest that didn’t, couldn’t get unfit or loose like a limp tie around a flabby neck. Clothes became insignificancies, peeling away like cotton candy-colored nail polish, or the tacky wallpaper printed on ceilings, walls, baseboards and backsplashes to cover up oil stains and misappropriated disappointments. Anyway… You opened your door for me and all I could do was smile at your chiseled chin and your Asian eyes… maybe that was because my eyes were equally Asian, from the watermelon and the rubbing alcohol. Or maybe it was because what I saw in you was something I couldn’t wait to forget about myself; squinting made it more friendly. I unlocked the front door and you stretched all 6 feet and some odd inches of sinewy, undeniably delicious disillusionment across my lavender bedspread as I sparked the green and exhaled languidly like Mr. Caterpillar tripping over his words and reclining amongst the comforts of his mind. Back, and forth, and back, and forth we passed it until our brains boarded a carousel of synchronicity with three silly letters holding its hand as it spun around and around. Our tongues and limbs, bound by the seductive curve of the “S”, the comfort and familiarity of the “E”, and the heavy weight of the “X”, came together like knots in a daisy chain around this little girl’s little wrist.
Help me to understand why I made breakfast for you that morning. Sure, your eyes were Asian and your chin was chiseled and your skin was sweet like mine, with maybe a bit more cocoa, but your sword wasn’t very sharp and your aim wasn’t very swift. Your hands didn’t weave stories around my thighs like the best storytellers know how to do. Instead, they ran a race they couldn’t wait to finish because of heavy, impeccably timed fatigue. Your eyes never met mine, lips barely met mine, smile wouldn’t meet mine, soul couldn’t meet mine. And as my hand, wrist and arm worked in perfect coordination with the spatula, flipping yellowing, dripping yolks in a hot pan while your 6 feet and some odd inches did God knows what underneath my lavender bedspread, the eyes in the back of my head seethed and sighed a heavy moan and groan all too similar to the ones they had whispered suns and moons ago.
All I want is a thank you for the money, a thank you for the time spent (my wallet is looking a bit empty now), a thank you for putting up with the grit and the grime that she left all over your insides, a thank you for dick sucking with my head in the palm of your hand like a worn basketball, as you left your nasty little secrets all over my hot pink sports bra, and a thank you for being someone who never asked for anything but just to sit on your lap and smile at your Asian eyes and chiseled chin.
A thank you for the eggs would be nice, too.
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