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Laurena Matava

Updated: Tue, 20 Sep 2016 11:17 pm

@laurena_matava

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Biography

Just trying.

Samples

Highway 160 My bad habits are a mile long And encompass everything from Nail biting to drinking to ignoring parents Phone calls. I tuck them under the run Hoping my dinner guests won’t notice The rugged terrain of my flooring And will instead gush about the 19th century table And how nicely it compliments the stone mantel, The lamp really ties it all together, you know. The whole time, praying they Don’t mention how my antique obsession is Stacked precariously on my smoking. As they file out, I tell them, Don’t trip on your way out the door Over my two day long naps-- I mean… the doormat. After everyone has vacated, And I am left alone again, I let my demons come crawling out, Pushing me into a sea of vices Until I am drowning in mistakes. A bottle of vodka, a carton of cigarettes, Two day old coffee, a picture of her, six drunk texts, Nail biting becomes a comfort, Hoping i tear the bits of myself That stack like a house of cards on fire away. Three boxes of mac and cheese later, I find myself not only crying into the pan, But also wanting to fight that guy. Which guy? Any guy. A vodka redbull and two adderall, A beer and a bong. My mother is calling again, Let it go to voicemail to rot amidst Broken dreams calling. I run to the convenience store And grab another two cartons. I promise the girl behind the counter I’ll be back to “hang out” after her shift. For a moment, panic sets in, Thinking I’ll never get these dispositions Under the rug again. But then I remember, Out encounter won’t last longer than The steps it takes to walk outside Around the dumpster. So I hitch a ride back to my house Even though it’s a stone’s throw And I thank the driver with a kiss, Stumble inside, Crying. Because, you see, I have a lot of Bad habits, But my worst, The one that reduces me to Rubble my six in the morning, Is thinking that i am no more Than a list of vices and Mistakes I can never take home to Mom and dad. I reduce myself to backalley encounters, Bottles of regret, cartons of tears, Nails bitten to the quick Because I can think of myself As nothing more Than a mistake.

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