Tonight's Poet Corner: Not My Kind Of Afterparty
Not My Kind Of Afterparty by Belinda Roddie Your grimace stays on tight like an extra skin. Your hummus-stained fingers grip the stair rail. You are so fucking drunk, but somehow, you can still see only one of me, and not two. I'll hold you steady with my gaze as you climb three flights. I'll find you on the balcony tomorrow, fast asleep, with the spicy dip still on your lips and pita chip crumbs on your jeans, your crossfadedness fading. Don't worry - I'll get Chad to delete the photos. I'll make sure that when afternoon comes around, your dad will be out of the house. And I'll try to make you a waffle with ice cream on top, because that's your favorite cure for a hangover - even though it doesn't do jackshit, and you'll throw up on my shirt and giggle as I rub your shoulders, waiting for your frown to come back again.