Collections

7/12/2019

Let me speak to you of the patterns pressed into popcorn ceilings,
and the shadows created in motel rooms at dusk,
In time I will craft the silences dispersed between two bodies,
Because I distill memories and drown them in vinegar
Wait until bruises bloom
Until the phrases decorating my thighs become the words become the letters become the
Syllables
That decompose pretty in the dead languages I cannot yet speak
Then I’ll tell you what it means to fold stories into paper cranes
And how words encased in doubt always taste so much sweeter
When chased with alkaline soiled promises
Made by boys masquerading as men
I will speak to you then of what it means
To crave the kind of love
That rots you from the inside out
Because the lies I’ve been seeking are better expressed behind closed doors
Better pronounced in the cold gestures,
And better practiced in empty words

4/1/2019

Someday,
I’ll write of happiness and love,
and carve beauty across my skin
Like thinly cut ivory, I am subject to statued living
Because I know of the kind of loneliness found in the back of a bathroom stall,
Since I spend my mornings, afternoons, and evenings
Sunken in porcelain
Ridding my insides of the words wrapped around cracked knuckles and rotting teeth
Perhaps, you say, there is no greater pleasure
than feeling empty,
than shifting acidic currents,
than cold-pressed burns,
So someday, I say in return, I’ll remember these things
And spill them out under fluorescent lights
on tile floors

10/1/2019

Enmity encompassed, laced in your indiscretions
Your feelings were never my responsibility
Never my burden to bear

Yet you throw words out like knives, uninspired,
mischief painted behind your eyes
Dulled over time, they sting with a quiet intensity
And burn cruel

For this, I’ll never forgive you.

6/2/2019

I am your golden child
A soft saccharine tale
Composed of ugly promises
And enveloped in white etchings to remind you of
these bones I’ve carved in pleasure
“How strong you are,” they sing to me
And twist my wings until they break,
a wound-up bird, an ornament for hanging
What luck I must have
To be told such things
Because only this kind of habit
Can be continuously repeated
Before it begins to rot
Because unlike you
I’ve been running since before I could construct these stories
To hide behind


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