Alexia Roumanas

by Ian on April 7, 2011

Alexia Roumanas was born in Sydney, lives in Athens and considers herself European. She likes adventures, sleep and oxymorons. She can’t stand morons. She hates standing. Last year, she dressed up as a sheep for carnival and accidentally set herself on fire; baaaad idea. She tends to joke about inappropriate things. She looks kind of cute in hats. She doesn’t know the difference between a healthy ego and an egotistical asshole. She refers to herself as an ‘asshole’ often. She smokes because she thinks it’s romantic. She talks French when she’s drunks. Quelquefois, elle est tres fou comme Holly Golightly. She writes at Say Another Lexi. Come.


I’ve been biting my lips all day and
now every word tastes like blood.
I think about you inappropriately,
at inappropriate moments.
I’ve never smiled so much at
the thought of fucking someone.
I know you can see it:
my eyes glazing over with desire.
Why do you think I cannot bear
to look at you?
For you I am
electric knots of chains and hearts and knees.
I’m locked, you say.
Wound so tight I won’t
but explode.
I want you in such a raw way,
such a lip-licking, submissive way,
that it rides, baring all,
in the glint of my eyes.
Why do you think I can’t bear to look at you?
I can barely bear thinking about you.


Wowee, youth in a shot, let me
teach you how not to be mature.
Sure, I can assure you that
everything, oh everything,
will be alright but do you
mind if I lie to you? You are
the shade and I am the sun
and I would like to beat you.
Beat you until my name
and all its grievances
are written on your chest
like tattoos. Could I do that
to you? Would you let me?
Would you let me eat you?
Devour you like some
emotional cannibal.
Shh! Secret: I am
logically crippled,
a whipped dream wet
from disaster, after
anything that could
make my heart beat
a little faster.

Hide and Go Freak

My morning is churning from living too
hard. Right now I make everything hard,
hard, hard. Shards of light are not
welcome here. I don’t want to see
last night. How many? Which one?
Which tongue? Lust is stupid revenge
but it’s all in the name of good fun.
That’s what I’m all about. I am a
fucking balloon, high on helium,
heavy with emptiness. My mind
is a carousel doused in neon lights.
I’m sure there should be something
in my chest but I don’t know it is.
It rides into my throat and then
dives back down again.  I am
speeding without a seatbelt,
stealing shots from strangers.
My reputation is burning like February.
It is always my turn to shock those
conservative cunts. To please them,
to tease them, those tough guys in tutus.
All year I’ve been good, good, good and
now I am tired and it’s so easy to be bad.
Who are you?
Doesn’t matter.
Even better in fact.
Let’s go hide so I don’t freak.

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