Pink Papers and Ink

I am curse with a perpetually joyful countenance.

The penalties for caring are far greater than apathy.

I write a lot of sad stories. Is it actually any good if it is not stained with tears? Do tears even actually stain? They’re like scars on the paper. But there only once the pain is recognized by another.

A writer may pour their hearts out onto a page Tears staining the cream paper But then the story is published and printed fresh paper that shows no sign of the pain. This is where the reader comes in. Seeing the pain, understanding the pain. These new pages are now tear stained but it’s the reader’s tears. Connections, man. We share pain.

I loved my bee. He was mine. Or I was his more like. Though I have this funny feeling it wasn’t even me he liked.

All of this is shit, Emily. Like, thanks for writing and practicing, but your words are a waste of ink.

Business Trips

Emily Schmitz

 Downing sips of your toxins

Shot glasses ruby stained

She waited for further instructions

 Blue satin smoothed from hips to sins

She undresses unnamed

Lips going down is your toxin

 As she profits off your addictions

Winter’s heart frostbit and chained

She’s waiting for further instructions

 Smudged eyeliner in the reflection

Blinking pale green eyes restrained

She’s drowning in your toxins

 As she serves her function

Beneath golden fabric remained

She listened to further instructions

 Each man a fresh introduction

Her dimpled pink smile regained

Slipping down into their toxins

This Car Had More Character Than Half My Friends, An Elegy to Boatcat

Emily Schmitz

 It never mattered how much money I earned.

You guzzled my cash and my heart

and I let you.

 I was fifteen and you were nineteen and for

four years we would explore thousands

of miles. Mom was

 concerned when we’d spend nights alone together

but we’d cuddle in the backseat

listening to

 Saint Motel and Kings of Leon, windows cranked

low, the cold reminding us of

an outside world.

 Your boxy shape and massive size earned the name

“Boat car,” typo-ed to “Boatcat and

it just stuck. When

 I drive past that storage unit off of A,

my mind pictures you just as much

as Tyler and me

 getting it on after getting hammered at

some concert. The new owner calls

you “The Russian.”

 I’m sorry for giving up on you. I know

my tears mean nothing to metal

This Car Had More Character Than Half My Friends

Emily Schmitz

 Prince Rory Alamadeous the Third

was the respectable name my friend

Fez—Michael to parents and teachers—

gave to the first car I ever owned. It was

 gifted to me at the age of fifteen, just four

years older than me, from

my dad’s mom’s lover’s late wife, but Mom

called it a boat car and when

I texted T-Kotts about that, the typo

read “Boatcat” and it just stuck

so at that point we had this cigar smoke

infested luxury Buick that could fit six

 or seven or eight comfortably and I swear

the most was like ten when the massive

trunk was utilized on a secret road trip

to the St. Louis Zoo to see elephants. It’s

 no exaggeration to say that maroon box

was my best friend; some days

I miss it more than my first boyfriend.

Correction: Boatcat was my first

boyfriend. In high school I’d sneak out

 just to cruise Fifth Street or cuddle

up against the cushions with the radio

blasting Kings of Leon. We created three

years and fifty thousand miles worth

of learning to navigate back roads and life

 even though there was also the two and a half

grand shoveled into keeping Boatcat alive, not

to mention the hours spent on the side of

the road waiting for tow trucks. Oh, and there

was the time some bitch in a green truck

completely dented in the right side at DQ

 before peeling out but then later Amanda

said she was the bitch and we all had

a laugh but honestly, all can easily for forgiven

when I drive by that storage unit off A where

 Tyler and I had sex after my sister got me

hammered at a T-Swift concert or every

time I round corners on KK like that time T-Revs

and I raced all the way back to his house after

 a six hour game of Catan. I’m sure Brooke,

my neighbor, still remembers when we went

on joyrides down Sunny Road and actually ran

Boatcat into a ditch once. Gas station attendants

 hated me because I’d pay nickels and pennies

to put fuel into a car that didn’t even tell me when it

was low and came off the lot with lighters and

ash trays in each door and the gear shift had to be

counted—one two three/reverse neutral drive. It

was the interstate that forced the break up upon

 us. Decision made, my roommate saw me bawl

through the night. In twelve hours I sold Boatcat

for four hundred dollars cash and smacked

my signature on a clean title. Tyler and I still

went strong even though the Nissan never

experienced so much as a kiss in its backseat.

 A year later I found Boatcat at Frick’s Grocery

and sought out the owner. He renamed my car to

“The Russian” because it’s big and red. I don’t mind

An unexpected spectacle of your affection—

I enjoyed the box’s bows and ribbons more.

Worth double your week’s wages! But darling,

           we both know how much that honestly is.

 Inside, the slender piece rested gently on its cushion—

silver. Not gold, yet still, neither copper.

At the time it matched my attire perfectly,

           one pure bloom looped through another.

 A physical flower for my metaphorical—

whatever. Your sweetness was as fresh

as the smell of those metal daisies.

            At least the chain lasted longer than you, love.

 Near my heart but strangled in my sleep.