what we have is not social justice, it is not even justice. i am sitting alone on the ground, there is blood around my legs and you are gate-keeping, putting your hands between my brain and my spine and pulling out the pins, tacking me up like a dead flower, a dead girl, ice cream… Continue reading poem: “guess what? i’m not a robot”
Tag: free verse
poem: pastel lust
you walked by and i, sitting in jeans and tee-shirt was suddenly a virgin in a field, my legs open over grass my fruit open and falling the daisy heads indented into my thighs, small red faces, matching mine; can you hear the water falling, the girl becoming?
poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk
I am watching the trees catch Darkness, the cupped hands, the branches, all shaking; feminity is caught tight in the branches, the men are earth and sea and sky. Night stumbles into the foreground; she is drunk, she watches her enthronement: the earth laid thin, dyed with falling eyes, faded mirth, coughing angels. This… Continue reading poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk
poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)
I did not want to be here (again): thinking only and always of where you could be where you will be where I might go and pretend to study, just to feel your small blaze as you walk through the room. it is childish, probably unhealthy; I might justify obsession in the name of love,… Continue reading poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)
poem: confessions of a teenage elitist
i like being misunderstood. but i am not that complicated: i think am better than you because i think about grand things in the shower and you only stare and smile, your eyes drained out, your mind running clear and fast and going nowhere. i have various complexes: childhood trauma, childhood poverty, childhood isolation. i… Continue reading poem: confessions of a teenage elitist
poem: small chronicle of living in my head
silent, silent girls play at depression, play at deep aching wounds: as we really saw battles, as if our mothers died and our fathers went mad; as if we were raped on cement floors outside cities, men standing at the door and sharing cigarettes. but, really, these girls are too fantastic and too normal:… Continue reading poem: small chronicle of living in my head
poem: the other black parade
the pretty people are still alive: the girls in white blouses, the boys being kissed from train-windows. I was alive in aftershock: I had sex with ghosts and wrote love letters to the gods, to the dust motes in my hair. I was waiting for a boy with too pale skin and black eyes… Continue reading poem: the other black parade
poem: softer, lighter, postmodern uwu
she is a protagonist: running up the apartment steps, a scarf beautiful and warm on her face, her hair dripping from the rain. she likes old cafes, old music and dead men; she keeps cats, reads books, drinks tea; But, lucky for the academy, this is a satire directed by a foreigner: she is shopping… Continue reading poem: softer, lighter, postmodern uwu
poem: vlog #19 winter night self-care routine
people who are in love are desperate and boring. people who are not in love are just boring. the artists and the addicts are self-justifying, living in cities in the sky, living in New York with neon palm-trees. But I am too busy being an Aesthetic, with long black hair pulled nicely into a blood-knot,… Continue reading poem: vlog #19 winter night self-care routine
poem: “exotic” is rude and discriminatory
you are only what you are not. you cannot get rid of the "other" because the "other" is the wide spectrum of things too big and grand for your narrow human soul.
