Make the Bed

I will have you know

that I finally made the bed,

but you should also know

that I haven't stopped wondering 

what you would look like in it

and my head is still mangled,

twisted and tangled 

in that top sheet,

and if 90% of attraction is scent,

then you've got me 90% of the way 

and I think you knew

what you were doing,

spritzing me with your cologne,

it didn't wear off for 24 hours,

even when I showered and scrubbed

relentlessly trying to erase you

until my skin was red, 

I was in middle school again

rubbing the back of my palms raw 

because everyone thought it was funny

and staring at that scuff mark,

burning with the pain of 8 sunburns

followed up with a swim in a saltwater lake.

I hope that you are not impressed.

This wound I created for you is scabbing over 

and soon I'll forget,

if 90% of attraction is scent

then that night, you had me 90% of the way.

Now I'm terrified of monsters in guest bedrooms,

dragons hoarding gold in castles 

on top of clothing-pile mountains,

and mystical mirrors that tell evil step mothers

"who is the fairest of them all?"

bring me that poison apple, 

I need the possibility of sleeping my way

through this awkward, girlish feeling 

and I swear if you are the one to wake me, 

I'll feed you a poison apple too 

and we can sleep through it together 

and hopefully wake with the reminder 

that fairy tales don't exist.

If 90% of attraction is scent

then 10% is blatant idiocracy.