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  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    with a wink.

    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.

    “The Gorge”

  • there is no way out.

    I want to eat my way out,
    fuck my way out
    but I can’t.
    I can’t.
    I can’t.
    the only way out is
    to fall.

    I fall in.

    “the first wave”

  • carried with her
    a weapon:  keys in hand,
    disarming speech pattern;
    accented and d r aw n out
    drawl,  a couple y’alls
    and no reason to suspect
    her about anything.

    I never tell a lie,
    she said
    leading me to
    some house.
    i’m tepid but halfway up
    the steps, how do you
    get away with that?


    I just never finish the story,
    she said, half turned and I
    hung there like a
    Christmas ornament
    on the front porch
    glistening in her iris.

    “How guys save me in their phone #12”

  • it took me two hours
    to let the ants out
    of their  sugar container.

    my vicious sneer
    melting into your chest
    nearby as they scrambled,
    running every which way
    as I considered retrapping
    them, trying again to watch
    them suffocate.


    they say I’m a masochist
    but my men know me
    differently. a
    sense of loneliness
    led me to look for families
    which left me enraptured
    by cults.

    I mark the corners
    of my house with
    sigil, command.
    I’m surrounded by
    five mirrors,
    in the favor of
    male form, my blade lined
    mouth opening. 

    “The sadist”

  •  but to you there’s no difference between
    decimation and solution,
    so you’re palms out
    begging for it
    full of resolve
    and here comes the reaper
    wearing your blood.

    “Saturn in Scorpio”

  • we are two indolent house cats.

    striped with ribbons of each other.

    soft paws and voracious,

    scratching at each other’s scabs

    to remember how to

    hunt.

    “the aviary”

  • but I feel the root rot and darken
    without altar, water
    or speech.

    you walk in and
    I’m here now
    growing into a black stem.
    you walk in and look
    right at me
    and I don’t know
    where to begin.
    but I found the
    aperture.
    you walk in and
    look right at me and
    my shiny white teeth
    forge a new smile.

    I begin to grow,
    unfurl, hum
    softly.

    “datura moon”

  • you kiss me hard
    and hold it.

  • the water is lavender scented,
    red, full of salt and pink roses
    and
    you say nothing for the hour,
    allowing me this still and
    grand ballet of thought.
    of ramble and kiss the back of
    my clean neck so
    softly, I melt and stick to your
    chest for the remainder.
    all the ways in which we’ve sat
    in water a dozen times before
    doesn’t compare to just once,
    in tactility, not in musing.

    your eyes were green once.
    and woman.
    you are letting your nose
    rest between my shoulder blades
    and I am close to sob.
    I am letting it emerge.
    I am letting it rise before
    beach, caught below,
    the little girl with book
    in hand, snickering.

    one of my first memories is
    taking a shower with my father.
    he laughed a lot.

  • in dreams,
    your eyes are blue and
    I am terrified I will
    get swallowed by the ocean.
    often, I am outrunning a
    tidal wave. sometimes,
    I am in the middle of two waves
    coming from opposite directions
    and there’s no land in sight.
    once, the girl brought me to
    return a book in the current
    as the wave was
    building, and she had no fear.

    for those who believe in fairy
    tales, first comes love,
    then betrayal, then
    the crow to tell the
    morbid wail of
    widowed,
    accused.
    and the hidden thread;
    the unreliable narrator
    springing from the
    Lullian Circle,
    knave at side or
    just a knife around
    her neck.

  • in dreams,
    your eyes are blue and
    I am terrified we both
    get swallowed by the ocean.
    often, I am outrunning a
    tidal wave. sometimes,
    I am in the middle of two waves
    coming from opposite directions
    and there’s no land in sight.
    once, the girl brought me to
    return a book as the wave was
    building, and she had no fear.

    for those who believe in fairy
    tales, first comes love,
    then betrayal, then
    the crow to tell the
    morbid wail of
    widowed,
    accused.
    and the hidden thread;
    the unreliable narrator
    springing from the
    Lullian Circle,
    knave at side or
    just a knife around
    her neck.

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