A love poem, zombies included.

I'm somewhat of a slam poet. Mind you, this sounds much better in an audible form. Nonetheless, here's what a love poem looks like: 

"What If..." by lauren caputi

I hate hypothetical conversations.

They allow other people to peer into the fiery depths of your soul that maybe you don’t enjoy flashing like a girl gone wild,
give rise to criticize your every detail and mental crevice
and start arguments you never even asked for.
 Every nook and cranny of reason and logical thinking becomes public domain as soon as events turn fictional.

Looking me dead in the eye, my boyfriend asks me this question.
“Babe, if it happened and I got bit, what would you do?”
Now, my brain shifts into overdrive with possibilities at this point.
Step carefully, Lauren. It’s a trap.
There is always a hidden agenda within a hypothetical question.

And if you haven’t already guessed, I’m talking about the zombie apocalypse.


Now, men, without a doubt you are the ones that are supposed to be the protectorates.
Strong, buff and chiseled. Protecting weak little flowers such as myself from the scary, gruesome, bloody undead. And somehow, once the end of the world rolls around, every man will have a perfect beard. Or so AMC makes me want to believe.

I’m faced with two options: beheading the man of my dreams or running away and praying for dear life. But me being…me, my eyes start welling up before giving it any real thought. I get easily flustered and throw safety and logic to the wind.
“I wouldn’t be able to kill you.” 
And he puts his hand on my cheek, pushes the hair out of my eyes and says, “Aww, baby that’s so sweet. But I’d kill you.”

And to defend my prior, obviously incorrect answer, I fire back with something stupid like, “Well, in the heat of the moment, I don’t actually know what I’d do.”

But the deed is done. I said I wouldn’t kill him and now I have “poor survival skills.”

And I interject with the question of a probable antidote. Naturally, if there’s a fictitious zombie invasion, we’ve found the cure. It’s just so fucking far away that no one in their right mind could cover that much ground. But it’s definitely there.

 So I say, “Well, what if I don’t want to kill you because I’m holding out for the antidote.”

And here’s the bitch about hypothetical questions. One slip-up and you’re wrong. Always.

“What? So you’re telling me you won’t kill me…but you’ll slaughter possible hundreds of thousands of strangers to get to the antidote?”

Red-faced. Silent staring. Loathing everything about this conversation.
Suddenly, he says.
“I love you too.” 

Comments

  1. This is great! Did you change it at all from the last slam?

    ReplyDelete
  2. I added one word. So, it's essentially the same thing. Thanks for reading! :3

    ReplyDelete

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