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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”

  • well, they always start
    the same way:
    in winter. it always starts in
    winter when I am my weakest.
    unsettled,

    raving at the window,
    the frost,
    the cracks in my joints announcing
    themselves in arthritic temper.
      manic
    during the darkest months,
    at times I know I should
    be sleeping but  I am reaching
    for anything that reaches
    back.

    in truth, I am a nihilist and
    men didn’t teach me that
    nothing ever matters and
    nothing is ever coming back.
    I watch my days get dragged away by tides
    that become encroaching swells
    and think to myself,
    well, it always starts
    with a storm.

    “the storm”

  • I want to burn my house down.
    think less.
    I want to set my house on fire.
    lay down.
    I want to stab myself to death with a switch blade.
    drink water.

    I go weeks without muttering a word to anyone save the necessary things. there are thoughts like vines
    binding me tight
    to her,
    to us.

    I want to fucking leap from the bridge to
    the patch of ice below.

    “Hello,” I beam at a stranger.
    “Hello,” he says back.
    I am polite even in injury.
    it’s February 1, 2017 and I am in a black coat,
    black hat, black pants,
    following twenty feet behind a man,
    a stranger,
    for about three quarters
    mile so far

    just for fun.

    “Sada Black”

  • you’ve been wrong before, girl. I am turning over every card in my house waiting for the upright. it’s mostly cups. I’m in love again.

  • “may i never lose the terror that keeps me brave.”


    audre lorde

  • made me walk to her house
    collecting stones along the way.
    said she was building something.
    my pockets and fingers were dirty
    and when I arrived,
    she was sitting, arms crossed
    and
    throw that conch shell away
    is how she greeted me.
    I feigned my deference
    and regret it now.
    she never wanted me to kneel
    but to toil for her favor.

    she didn’t greet me with any body part
    but squared me.
    when I asked about the stones,
    she looked perplexed.
    gestured to the kitchen where the
    trash sat and said
    throw those away too.

    “sisyphus” or “how guys save me in their phone 4”


  •  you are learning
    to never bet on
    anything
    that talks.

  • if you shrunk her to the
    size of a pine needle;
    remember her
    previous stature–
    platformed boots,
    four inches taller than she really
    was and towering some men,
    not just in height but in
    arrogant loquaciousness,
    abrasiveness,
    wealth.
    but if you shrunk her and
    hid her in the bunk of
    a barn underneath the bales,
    I don’t know,
    he waves his hands,
    for revenge.
    you could even tape her mouth
    shut, quell the
    squawking

    I bet
    she would shine
    like a comet;
    self immolate,
    ignite herself and
    begin to set the barn on fire
    so you could find her.
    I bet

    yes every time
    that even hidden like a penny
    in a cornfield
    she’d grow vowels, legs,
    a scream.
    made sure you would
    find her.

    “how guys save me in their phone #3”

  • I haven’t said a word to anyone
    in weeks about the theory I could
    fly because we were all dead.
    this is me trying to wake up
    to that fact.
    I sat on the edge of my bed
    staring at my face
    in the oval, mahogany mirror:
    warped, ashen,
    melting
    this is purgatory.

    I was going to prove I
    could fly. plus
    I knew they were
    watching me.

    “the angels”

  • the first thought of the morning is always
    today is the day I jump off the bridge.
    I have a frenzied compulsion
    to walk to it, sometimes
      cross it
    but there are days I can’t.
    I can’t  face the ice-tinged railing.
    the dirty sidewalk filled with
    discarded straws I want to touch,
    put in my mouth.
    begin to spin the happy thought of us.
    take another route to nowhere.I’m high by 8 am.
    pull my boots up,
    hat, double tights.
    it’s gray. no sun and
    today is the day I jump off the bridge,
    I declare.
    it’s January 25th, 2017.
    I haven’t said a word to you yet.
    just holding it in,
    clenched, clasped
    to my throat,
    pushing
    like my blue plume
    of breath.

    “the bridge”

  • start the day at dawn.
    this begins soon after the new year,
    I start the day at dawn.
    drink a whole french press.
    make meaning of Spotify friend feed.
    write my dreams.
    scrawl a divined theory.
    walk miles in the snow,
    no gloves.
    begin to touch them.

    begin to mark my hands with notes.
    begin to brush them as I pass.
    begin to order from the local
    coffee shops;
    sixteen ounces plus croissant
    to nibble on all day.
    begin to trudge two miles back.
    begin to stare them down.
    begin to spin the happy thought of us
    into some landing, or
    monumental ache.
    always waiting.
    begin waiting.
    begin waiting.

    begin to send you my thoughts
    about it, first,
    via mind
    then via dream
    then begins the texts.

    “the walks”

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