Slightly Inappropriate Questions that We All Need the Answers To

Slightly Inappropriate Questions that We All Need the Answers To

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Where exactly does the line between "platonic friendship" and "emotionally cheating on your boyfriend with your best friend" lie?

Are babies the product of habitually trying to save relationships that burned out years ago, or is it always love found between the sheets?

What if I don't care anymore?

Why does kissing have to be slobbery? And, follow up question, are all stage kisses really just for show?

John Mayer, was her body really a wonderland, or is that just a line you used to get her clothes off?

If you don't exactly hate Donald Trump, are you still allowed to be a Millennial?

Can you be in love with more than one person at the same time? If you are, does that make you a bad person?

How come movies never show people excusing themselves so that they can use the bathroom? I'm pretty positive that George Bailey and Indiana Jones have to take a crap sometimes, just like all the rest of us.

Asking for a friend, what if the moon landing didn't actually happen?

How are we supposed to build a better world if we keep using disposable razors?

Who authorized heartbreak as an institution, and where do I go to file a complaint?

What if some of us really do fall in love too often, too easily, and too fast?

What if that is the human condition?

Do you think we'll ever know the answers to all of the questions?

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Right Now

Right Now

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

The floor is very cold; I can feel its coolness through my jeans, which is confusing considering how hot it's been outside.

Recently, I've been trying to be more aware of my surroundings.

The floor is cold and the room smells good and the song from the 80's that's blasting through the speakers makes me miss an era that I never got the chance to see.

I'm feeling pretty good, and I don't know if it's because of the song or the smell or the boy who's sitting next to me while holding my hand.

Maybe it's a little bit of all of it.

His kisses are salty because of the pretzels he just finished off, and when he leans against me and speaks, I can feel his voice echo from deep inside his chest. 

I hope he doesn't mind me writing about him. 

I also hope the fact that I'm writing about him doesn't make his ego any bigger than it already is.

I usually write about people in retrospect; way after the fact, so that maybe they won't know that I'm writing about them.

I've lamented over the fact that my writing is sometimes very transparent.

I was corrected, however, and told that it is honest, and that that is how you tell a good story. 

So then, here are the honest facts: the floor is cold, the room smells good, there is no 80's song with my name in it, the boy next to me is going to know that this poem is about him, and I just let myself feel the happy as the happiness was happening.

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Bottle Blonde

Bottle Blonde

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'm sitting on the back porch of a house I've never been to before, talking about a boy who thinks I'm good, but that I'm not good enough for.

Or maybe, he's not good enough for me.

The Bottle Blonde who's listening strums ukulele that she never learned how to play and finishes off her third cigarette.

When she isn't busy blowing smoke, she talks a lot.

I do too, but I've learned that listening is sometimes more gratifying; the challenge is knowing when it's time to speak up.

I think he holds my hand to keep himself steady sometimes. He wouldn't be the first person to do that.

Bottle Blonde tells me that I'm smart and strong, and that boys want that but don't know how to hold onto it;

Then she offers me a cigarette and I politely decline.

"You're a good girl with a couple shades of grey. This world needs more of you."

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Asking For a Friend

Asking For a Friend

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I believe that if we try hard enough, we leave something with each person we interact with.

Whether that something is going to be good or bad is the part we oftentimes don't understand until after the fact.

For example, my last boyfriend left me with a half-assed goodbye and an abandonment complex.

I left a book of poetry in his dorm room.

Consequently, it seems to me that, out of the two of us, I did the least amount of harm.

Yesterday, someone asked me if my legs get tired when I run away from my past; I explained to them that I like to see it as me flying towards my future.

Either way, I do occasionally experience shin splints.

Personally, I like seeing the sun set more than watching it rise; even bright, burning stars deserve a little rest.

Have you ever thought about the man in the moon?

Don't you wonder if he objectifies the planets?

Or maybe he knows how to look beyond the mountains that are made of molehills; perhaps he focuses on more than just the tree trunk thighs that pass by as he orbits the Earth.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

More importantly, why is it that every boy enjoys Edgar Allan Poe?

Sometimes I think that it's my many questions that scare people away.

I should just start accepting things for their face value, I know.

It's just that it's my tendency to look for the deeper meanings.

I suppose it's really no loss; you never could answer my questions anyway.

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An Epiphany

An Epiphany

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I've got goosebumps on my arms and butterflies in my stomach.

The goosebumps are there because it's a little more than chilly outside. 

The butterflies moved in when I decided that I like the way his voice dips down when he says my name.

The light that stands tall a few feet away from me shines in a blurry sort of way, thanks to the smoke that curls towards the sky in pretty little wisps.

I've just now had an epiphany: this whole time, I've been growing up, and now I'm as old as I've ever been.

I've outgrown my cradle, I've left the kids menu behind.

Here I am, holding hands under the table in an attempt to be discreet and singing along to songs I am too young to know.

I'm whispering secrets to friends I've known for only minutes and making room for memories I forgot that I'd forgotten.

I love how it feels to be this young; I have yet to lice so many adventures.

There are still so many stars for me to make wishes on.

I've been offered a drink now, and I take a sip as someone skips my favorite song.

I suppose I didn't realize I'd got to be this old; I was too busy wasting my days, wishing I was older.

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During Intermission

During Intermission

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'll tie a daisy chain around your finger so that you don't forget.

I will leave little reminders of how much I care until you believe them.

Give me a chance to map out the blueprints to the future in this indigo sky.

In Manhattan, porch lights look like shooting stars and trains breathe beneath pedestrians who don't know each other's names.

In Virginia, small towns are splattered all around; people bike to their breakfast and beg the world to slow down.

Right here in my broken city, we're somewhere in the middle.

And that is a place I don't mind being because I know that you're just an afternoon away.

The snag in the plan is that you seem to be either two pages ahead or a paragraph behind me.

That's okay.

I think the subtleties of life are oftentimes found in the timing.

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Ask Me Anything

Ask Me Anything

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I believe in the significance of moments that seem unimportant;

the split second of eye contact, the accidental brush of a hand...you know the kind.

The tricky thing is that those precious moments can be interpreted all kinds of differently.

Go ahead; ask me anything.

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