Harrison

He yawned.

I sat on the floor, engrossed

In the empty space before me,

Sitting in the lurch that

He would leave me.

I looked at him,

He looked over at me

And I had to look away.

I didn’t want him to see that

I belonged to him

For almost two months now.

I didn’t want him to know it.

It was bad enough that I knew it.

And sure, here I was,

A teenaged trespasser

With a minimal amount of expectancy,

But when I gave myself to him

I gave myself for a while,

Not just for a good time.

But whatever kind of time it was,

Physical to a big mistake,

It was running out.

He lay stretched out,

Looking sturdy and sure.

He yawned,

And had to go

Back home

To his wife

And kids.

A found poem I wrote in college using The Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher (pages 174-175) as a guide. The following is the journal entry that inspired my writing:

“Who am I doing it for,” I asked him. It was a fairly rhetorical question and the only reply I warranted was a shrug, which he supplied. I sat on the floor engrossed in the empty space before me. He lay stretched out on the couch looking sturdy and sure. Maybe no man is an island, but some sure look like one. All safe and dry and looming on your horizon. But the current was against me and who was I kidding? His island was already inhabited and here I was, a teenaged trespasser. All I had to do was make the most of being adrift.

He yawned. I looked at him with a minimal amount of expectancy. He looked over at me, and I had to look away. I didn’t want him to see that I “belonged to him” - it was bad enough that I knew it. I didn’t want him to know it, too. I kept it from myself for almost two months now, calling it everything from “physical” to a big mistake. Not that it wasn’t those things, it was, but when I “gave myself to him” - Merry Christmas, baby - I gave myself for a while, not just for a good time.

But whatever kind of time it was, it was running out. He was leaving Sunday. So there we were, Tuesday night sitting in the lurch that he would leave me in. Nothing personal, of course. He finished filming and had to go home to his wife and kids. Aye, there’s the rub. That’s when Cinderella’s pre-shattered post-ball shoe was scheduled to drop.