perhappened mag
issue 1: CARNIVAL
all the ways i forgot to love him
SARAH LOVEROCK
I’ve been trying to find ways to ask you out, baby,
without exposing the fact I’m a cheap she-clown in
baby-powder make-up. Duck into the tent,
peep behind the curtain, ask the fortune teller this:
‘Can you really love someone who leaves you to die?’
I’m a crystal ball, honey, all my intentions laid bare
in these lines, in these pages. Stuffing my face with
popcorn to take the pain away. Life feels like a
high striker; I keep hitting it and hitting it
and I never hear the ding ding ding! Never win
the giant tiger plushie. I have nothing to cuddle
in my arms without you, dear. Is it my fault
I was numb for a decade? That I missed every
smile and sweet whisper thrown my way
like knocking over glass bottles
all in the name of a prize we’ll lose
down the backseat of a car?
It’s my fault. I was too late for you,
too scared. Now all I have are sepia memories
like photos from a distorted booth
of the times we shared with friends
over pizza, blushing and crying until my
cheeks turned to puffy cotton candy.
I’ll drag my broken body back under
the sheets and cling to my phone,
imagine some half-dream of a summer
where we’ll meet again
at a carnival, just like this.
without exposing the fact I’m a cheap she-clown in
baby-powder make-up. Duck into the tent,
peep behind the curtain, ask the fortune teller this:
‘Can you really love someone who leaves you to die?’
I’m a crystal ball, honey, all my intentions laid bare
in these lines, in these pages. Stuffing my face with
popcorn to take the pain away. Life feels like a
high striker; I keep hitting it and hitting it
and I never hear the ding ding ding! Never win
the giant tiger plushie. I have nothing to cuddle
in my arms without you, dear. Is it my fault
I was numb for a decade? That I missed every
smile and sweet whisper thrown my way
like knocking over glass bottles
all in the name of a prize we’ll lose
down the backseat of a car?
It’s my fault. I was too late for you,
too scared. Now all I have are sepia memories
like photos from a distorted booth
of the times we shared with friends
over pizza, blushing and crying until my
cheeks turned to puffy cotton candy.
I’ll drag my broken body back under
the sheets and cling to my phone,
imagine some half-dream of a summer
where we’ll meet again
at a carnival, just like this.
Sarah Loverock is a writer, poet, and MA Creative Writing student. She has been previously published in Streetcake, ang(st) zine, and Pussy Magic. She loves all things witchy and spiritual, history and mythology, and cute animals. She is available on Twitter @asoftblueending.