Taken for Granted + Teeth - Olive Murray

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taken for granted
The sun, some sort of father figure to oppose the earth and the moon, 
creeps higher as I sip coffee too early out of a paper cup and watch a 
half-hearted soccer match with quiet moon beam cheers. I am going
to be late for class, but the timer ticks up to one-hundred and five 
minutes and I am exhausted in this early morning atmosphere. His 
hand grips tight his own cup, while he loud jaw chews and clicks his 
breakfast that he slipped into his pocket on his way out. I don't know
why I didn't know I was always going to be taken for granted. Even 
as I feel the pressure of his knee on my knee and move away, some 
fake discomfort surging within me, a tide of envy pressing itself on 
my throat, I didn't know. 
I wanted her to see me, to see the faults and cracks in my spine, the 
way her words rippled through me like a unmedicated and undeviated
solar flare, each rip and tear a nebula of gaseous effects, and I watched
her kiss him and raise an eyebrow in challenge when she looked 
back at me. A moment of deviation proved drunken debauchery 
correct and her lips were so pink in the cold, cold air; she flirted with 
me and pressed her soft mouth against my shoulder; for a moment
I was frozen between longing and regret, and remembered his 
voice coming to me, asking do you have feelings for me, too? and 
I shifted away, pretending not to notice, or care, but should have 
realized then: I will always be taken advantage of. 

teeth
I built my whole life around having friends, being 
consistent but when it comes down to it and words 
are dropped like tacks in the mouth of a giant, all 
steely hardware with nowhere to go it turns out it is 
not as I had pictured. I quietly pretend to be brought 
around but instead want nothing better than to run - 
see, this happens when I feel I’ve gotten stuck; when 
the road meets the cross and I am lost without direction 
to turn to. I don’t believe in having friends anymore, 
because for me they’ve all turned out the same - parcels 
of bitter teeth wrapped in shiny paper which waits on 
tenterhooks for you to dig childish fingers in, only to 
bite and gnaw and tear when your actions displease 
them. I’m not sorry. I’ll never be sorry for being who I 
believe I need to be - but you. You will never be sorry 
for making me own a set of teeth, too.


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