Poetry by Dylan Bickers
By Dylan Bickers
13 Reasons Why I Swiped Left on Tinder
1) There is a large confederate flag on display, and you are holding a gun.
Not only am I concerned that our political beliefs won't line up,
but you're also probably a better shot than I am.
I am afraid of embarrassment.
2) Your name seems really hard to pronounce.
I know this is shallow, sometimes I am really shallow.
Just look at this whole poem.
Both of our lives are probably better for me having swiped left.
I'm sure you did too.
3) You have kids.
This one is really easy, I don't like kids.
I have a hard enough time keeping myself alive,
how do you expect to take care of tiny humans that don't even look like me?
4) You have what I call, actually what a lot of people call, "crazy eyes."
You look like you'd cut my dick off for watching a show with a strong female lead.
You look like you'd get mad at me for talking to my sister too much
because she's a woman that is not you.
You look like a medicine cabinet that's too full of my own problems to fit all of yours too.
5) You voted for Trump and actually bragged about it in your bio.
6) Your first photo is an actual stock photo.
If your bio does not say, "stock photo model," I will not be fooled.
7) You look too much like my mother.
8) You look too much like my ex girlfriend.
9) You are my ex girlfriend.
10) We just broke up, how are you already on Tinder?
11) We just broke up, why am I already on Tinder
12) I finally see why you said my standards were always too high.
Why you wanted me to be less judgmental.
I guess, maybe I need to stop comparing every girl to you.
13) You seem shallow
Hello. (After Sabrina Benaim)
When I say hello, I mean thank you.
When I say thank you, I mean because of you
the clouds don't seem so distant anymore.
When I say the clouds, I mean the cars on the road.
The cars on the road
that aren't in a funeral procession anymore.
Instead, they are beautifully decorated floats
in a parade where the sole performer is your voice.
All breathless and full of laughter.
When I say breathless, I mean I'm drowning.
When I say drowning, I mean that I can't
imagine a world in which you stop smiling at me.
When I say me, I mean who I will be tomorrow;
and, by tomorrow I mean when I will see you next.
Because there are always improvements
I can make on this run-down house of mine.
So, until that day comes, I’ll wake up early.
I’ll patch up the places I can.
I’ll mend the cracks in the foundation
so I have something to build on.
I’ll keep trying to get my three squares in,
and try not to drink too much.
I’ll make this something more of a house
than it was before.
When I say house, I mean home
because home is where the heart is.
And when I say heart, I mean this
persistent hummingbird beating away at its cage.
When I say cage, I mean my head.
You see, my head and my heart don't get along.
By don't get along, I mean they go to war
every day that I'm too tired to play the mediator.
When I say tired, I mean I'm ready to go to sleep.
And, when I say go to sleep, I mean come into tomorrow.
I'll see you there.
I think I was listening to La Dispute when I wrote this
The sound of glass shattering against a wall
is the sound of a hundred small stars
bursting to life.
A constellation of sharp edges forms from a fit of anger.
Another argument ending with cold expansion.
Is it the universe stretching at its edges,
or the potential of you drifting away again —
for good this time?
The first time we used that glass
was at our first Thanksgiving.
You were drinking an expensive white that betrayed the light
glistening behind your happy drunk eyes.
I convinced myself we had so many more full plates,
the cornucopia of years spread out before me like
a table, welcoming me home.
The second time you used that glass was
our last anniversary. You were drinking cheap red
and crying. The flower arrangement came as late
as the apology I owed you.
Drooping petals told of the peril we found ourselves in
when I was lost in an argument to plant a flag in defiance.
This is where I stand, fuck the thought of where we
would end up.
The last time I used that glass was when
I was picking the star struck shards
from their resting place on the kitchen floor.
The only red they taste now is blood,
lost from trying to piece together what we used to have.
Dylan Bickers was born and raised on the Hilltop in Columbus, OH, moved to Dover, Delaware for the Air Force, and just moved back to Ohio after his enlistment ended.