some people light small fires—I, am lit. someday i will be won and not waiting: it is an old refrain, told by older woman; in the still afternoon i watch three sparrows circle my childhood, the greens glowing yellow, and i think— there is something waiting out there, there is something roaring.
Tag: alone
poem: twisted
published also in one hand clapping magazine, in altered form if you put my face into wet cementit would not leavedefining marks. my shoes squeak lolita lolita lolita after i visit my father;walking across town makes towninto thin manga lines,the people slipping into hotpencil shapes and his thumbprintskeeping close watchon my ankles, on the young… Continue reading poem: twisted
poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)
i put hope on the ceiling fan and turned it on and watched it fling off and splatter on the walls; my mother will be pissed, but I want her to know that the blue and the black now coating her plaster is how I feel, most of the time. for context, mother, let me… Continue reading poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)
poem: the pandemic is us
she is waiting at an inner-city line the bus pulls up blood-red, it is weeping corpses the bodies are old personas, old dissected diagrams of the same girl: she is ambition, desperation, romanticism. but now— she is washing and washing her hands trying not to be something she is not, trying to find the small… Continue reading poem: the pandemic is us
poem: there is always a lost generation
she is sitting with her face in the window watching the country blur into Monet and his outcast friends— she is always afraid, if she blinks she will miss the important moment when the universe pauses and catches her breath. the country falls louder and longer when when she picks up culture and tries it,… Continue reading poem: there is always a lost generation
poem: disenchanted
when i last heard this song i was better, i was in hell but i was managing: i would not have stabbed my arm with a fork because i forgot where my knife was kept, i would not have spent the next day staring at the small break in the skin— thinking about nothing, feeling… Continue reading poem: disenchanted
poem: i broke the skin but it didn’t hurt (everything is a disappointment)
she was in her room and the moon was hung capriciously outside and she was sitting on the heater, her legs curled inside herself; she was crying and she wanted to pull her veins out of her too-thin wrists and eat them, letting the wires tangle in her throat—like her emotions used to tangle in… Continue reading poem: i broke the skin but it didn’t hurt (everything is a disappointment)
poem: boring afternoon depression
some questions for today: when did my image consume my soul? and how the fuck did i end up the 'good girl'? can we return to the before—when he was still a mystery, when i did not make hell into a casual routine; crying in your room alone to my chemical romance is so seventeen;… Continue reading poem: boring afternoon depression
poem: they told her—Love is violent
and she did not believe it. because the Unrequited is soft, it is gazing out glazed-over windows and waiting for fictions in the mist and the raining grey. but when the boy—is horribly real, the Emotion comes wild, exploding imploding burning loose—the system torn up, the inheritance bolshevik-ed with three smiles. she makes the Raw,… Continue reading poem: they told her—Love is violent
poem: suicide is metaphor
she is leaning out the window, considering— the view. she cannot hang here forever, she will either step away and keep the sky a separate god or she will lean into the inevitable, her fingers splitting in the air her head smashing into damp pieces. her skull is a throbbing lump hanging on a broken… Continue reading poem: suicide is metaphor
the last pavilion 