PROHIBITION

We used to live dual lives.
The jacket you threw on, navy orange school spirit, like showmanship paraded through crowds.
The condoms tucked in your jeans, wallet; said they were dollars for taxis taking girls home.
Retching vodka bile at midnight, aviator sunglasses to church on Sundays.
Playboy bunny on your Cadillac, an engraved crucifix long after it peeled off.
Maybe I was pure then, but I fell for your complexity. I wasn’t your vice nor was I your victim.
Now your tattoo sleeves and diamond earrings are exchanged for a white picket girlfriend and her plastic smile
Your hands quiver as you hover over her; love but you can’t touch.
What happened to Facebook pictures of Grey Goose and Patron? Your racing car exchanged for a love carriage.
Your phone silent on Friday nights, as unanswered text messages turned to party invites for other people.
I’ll take your reputation, kind sir, and throw the coat of duality over my shoulders.
You may be a gentleman, but they’re all waiting for you to stumble, die of thirst.
We lock eyes in a crowded room. There’s a cross around my neck, with the proverbs scratched out.
We sit away so we don’t see each other, but sneak gulps from the same flask.

This poem is included in The Sophomore Year Experience poetry compilation.

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About Amy

Amy is a freelance writer and artist based in LA. Her hobbies include romanticizing her world, having too many moody thoughts, and wandering through neighborhoods she's never been in.
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