life is messy and i don’t enjoy it. every day,
another wine glass. french names too shy to
leave my tongue until forced. meanwhile,
i am 22 and washing behind the ears seems more
and more a cultivated lifestyle.
you, who still vacuum under the bed, consider the way
the days swell and fatten under the spring sun.
in the dream i am walking through the field by our childhood
home where corn used to grow some summers
ago. wondering as i go, fingers just
grazing the uncultivated grass–if wildflowers
have found their way here, if the dirt knows it can make
something of the dead, if the dead know the field does not
know want even as it wants. in the d…[Read more]
leaving girlhood is not yet knowing to look back
taught the bite of desire,
someone’s blunt teeth, gnawing, and the pain is
newness, you think this is love
a ring of bruises around the neck, you think
the wet heat of your childish name
what stays, is molded
eyes closed i picture my heart,
searching for some glimpse of
the elusive self.
the mind draws diagrams of smiling bodies,
all arteries and gristle, carefully indexed.
something in me falls
through eyelids flushed red in the light,
they tremble as the heart trembles;
the heart, a fist-sized fleshy thing;
the heart, a…[Read more]
@stonefoxkneesocks i literally haven’t written since i left this site so i’m like dead inside lol
self reinvention: i took a hammer to my ribs, precisely,
pounded until my chest was an empty
cavity, dry and wordless. at my feet,
a horrible mess.
i did this to myself;
it was my hands gripping the hammer.
on my best days, i recognize this as a lie.
folded in half on a thursday night, breathing deep. remembering the feelings you’ve lost (even that feeling of loss). times when all goodness meant you hadn’t yet thought to make contingency plans. your lungs are bigger now.
childhood: the corner of the local library, painted to look like the sea, the lighthouse column a solitary rising gia…[Read more]
The harder I scrub, the more you spread. You sink in my pores, unfurl and wrap around my fingers and wrists as I vigorously shake and scrap and tear at my skin in futile attempts to stop the suffocating stick of you from embedding itself in my skin, my tissue, my bones. My fragile arteries betray me and bring your poison to the pulsating meaty…[Read more]
I roll the puckered, wilted lemon between my hand and let the bitter juice trickle down my fingers. It runs down my wrists, wrapping around my arms in tangled, viscous vines.
It’s hot. So hot. The humid day bears down on my chest, the air thick with smog the colour of leftover cereal milk. There is no sounds, there is no movement. Even the grass…[Read more]
cities, pt. 2
the city breathes smoke into the night,
ghosts lit through the windows of seedy bars
and other desperate places. her red lips
stretched in a wolf’s smile
are no consolation you can fathom.
you find yourself in a crouch, knees collapsing
like brief empires.
strangers with hollow eyes
cry emergency, beckon
for r…[Read more]
cities. signals. smoke. (amalgamation)
always hand to mouth, eating up the crumbs of your heart
that you vomit and swallow and vomit and repeat–
he moves to the side, at the edge of the mess you lay in,
shoes and pants clean.
the way his face stills is a filthy thing.
all you hear falling from the chimney of his mouth
is a steady litany o…[Read more]
i love you– it means so much more than three simple words
each day is a struggle. the sun will not wake with me.
lonely street lamps exhale steam through
a second floor window.
i breathe it in like second-hand smoke, let it fill me
until i become a pile of ashes
rising to the ceiling.
“don’t you have anything to fight for?” you say.
i nod yes. “myself”, i say, but the one skewered
on the…[Read more]
a refraction of light across the ceiling
smooth like prayers in a language you
don’t know how to speak.
laying in the dark, hands still on your chest
pull loose threads until they give.
breathe it in, the taste of tears
again in your saliva.
(you could be looking at stars.
these are your stars.)
black tar rushes up my throat again.
i shut my teeth, but it leaks. it leaks, it leaks,
and my white dress, the one my mother gave me
when i once made her proud–
i feel the silk stick to my skin.
i can’t think. the room is stifling
with the quiet of your arrival. it feels like loss.
my blackened smile is something hideous that you…[Read more]