Everything in Transit

For the past couple of weeks my poetry workshop professor has been encouraging us to write poems for Valentine’s Day. This encouragement has only managed to produce sadness in my heart and a strong distaste for the holiday overall. I kind of want to be like: “Listen, not everyone in this class has been happily married for 26 years like you. Some of us are representing the modern-American version of Bridget Jones, here. We’re not all writing love poems.”

As if one source hitting me up for Cupid-related work wasn’t enough, I received an email last week from the editors of the Honors College publication, and they were requesting last-minute submissions for the Valentine’s Day issue. Because I have not submitted anything for a while (and because I was starting to feel guilty), I decided to submit something by the end of the evening. The publication features satire and other comedic pieces that usually end up poking fun at people, so I decided to avoid writing anything serious and decided to create something cynical. I started thinking about the holiday itself, the commercialism involved, and all of the people I had recently overheard discussing what they wanted to get from their significant other on February 14th. I’m a simple girl and I don’t get caught up in big gifts, but some of the other college students at this university (who are broke as hell and wouldn’t be able to give big gifts) do not seem to share my mentality.

“He better pull out that ring - yeah, the one on his computer - or I’m telling him I’m not putting up with this shit anymore.”

“We better have reservations someplace nice. I’m not spending another Valentine’s Day at Applebee’s.”

“Well, I pointed to two different bracelets and a ring at the mall. Is it wrong that I’m kind of hoping for all three of them?”

It’s the expectations that get to me: the idea that if your sweetheart doesn’t turn into a pseudo-Steve Job/Santa Claus and gets you something flashy and expensive that you might truly have a terrible day. And so I started writing from the perspective of someone fed up with the expectations, someone who wasn’t feeling romantic and in the mood to give gifts to a demanding lover. I think I channeled some energy from the “Fuck you, whore” card in (500) Days of Summer. And this is what I sent to one of the editors, who told me they thought it was perfect.

And this is the poem I will be handing my poetry professor tomorrow. 

Roses are red,
violets are blue.
I ate every piece of candy
that I meant to give to you.

I’m sorry.

(Not really)

You see it’s better in my stomach
than it would be in yours.
You should probably lose some weight -
you barely fit through doors.

That was harsh.

(But honest)

And this is probably going to play into Reasons Lauren Will Not Ever Get a Chance to Reproduce.