Sometimes they say, You can’t really teach someone to write a poem, in which case you might answer, Well,
not you.
He came down my throat, I slurped it all up.
I didn’t want to write this essay, but I know somebody will publish it and feel good about themselves for platforming a disabled voice.
Our lovemaking is a demilitarized zone.
Shit, is this what the Zoom room people mean when they say fantasy addict?
This final image crushed me. It was a forewarning of what identity destruction can lead to if we
don’t truly understand ourselves to begin with.
I am just a village idiot.
“You’re dirty,” you said to me, “I don’t kiss you because I think about how many dicks must’ve been in your mouth."
Everything tended to with love bears fruit they told me.
Now I don’t care anymore. I’m writing posthumously; I’m invisible now – like an “aging actress”!
I was sobbing too loud for the men’s room and I was in no shape to explain myself so I settled on the supply closet next to it. After a couple minutes of moping I got a BBM (we had to have Blackberries then, for whatever reason) from Jarrett. “Were fuck are you bro?”
How much would you pay to have an honest conversation with yourself?
He turns up late to almost all of his final exams, answers whatever questions he feels like and defaces the rest of the paper.
I vomited
up a prophecy in a dive bar,
inhaling hot dogs.
I lie in bed a long time before sleep comes. I wonder if I love Natalie or if I’m just so bored and I’m turning fleeting, tiny moments into full scale cinematic affairs in my head.
To begin abruptly: I’ve been some degree of suicidal since I was fourteen. I don’t think this makes me special. In fact, I think I’d be more of an individual if I’d always wanted to live.
A year wrapped in a day, a teardrop at the climax of every way that wounded, furthering the wounds.
I can tell she’s not convinced. But I’ve been Googling symptoms: confusion, nausea, loss of appetite, changes in sleep patterns, visual hallucinations, erratic behavior.
There is kind of a freedom in the humiliation of feeling a little bit trashy.
That was the world then…
That was the world then….bawdy cars and tawdry thoughts and rundown wannabe skyscrapers brownie baked by the sun that just looked cheap against the horizon and everybody
She breathed deeply and saw an image of the naughtiest kids in the afterschool program laughing at her.
The day I stopped being a woman was a hard-boiled egg kind of day.
I hold myself in the plank position. The little dog sits on the rug watching. It’s a very expensive rug. She’s not supposed to be here. He’s up on the purple couch and I do not know what he is
