send him a polaroid
of one tear rolling down
your cheek and don’t tell him
you got suntan lotion
in your eyes.
prove your
f ee l i ng
and that you have
f ee l i n g sss.
when I was a child,

colors came out of walls
to talk to me and said:
to survive
place yourself in a box.
so now I live in a box.
it’s about

10 x 10.
and when I walk,
it moves with me.
10 x 10
and I am screaming inside.
and everyone wants to

see me cry
and my mouth is
set sternly but
more importantly,
I have had a recurring vision
that I will kill myself
at the age of 34.
over and over I watched myself
leap off the bridge.
I just have to not kill
myself and I get to walk right
out the ancestral curse
and you’d think
well certainly
than crossing
a tightrope
or tricking a man
into switching places

but the thing is
this box. 

“the box”


 He pointed to his name tag, “I’m Orion.”


Marisol yelled from across the room, “XXX thinks he can be the constellation that attracts his true love to him.”

Part 2: How did you get here?


“a question marked swallow hungry for an answer.”


I have three cuts through
the devil on my leg
and a small bruise to the right of
it, a large bruise on
my left thigh.
when we met,
you had a large bruise on your
right arm
and I don’t know where
I got it.

you are careful.
I am unsure what to say.
I don’t either. 


I begin to tell her a dream.
he begins to tell me a dream.
I am in the middle of a forest.
it feels wet, dark and cold,
at night but it starts turning
into maybe dusk.
I guess dawn but it feels like night is coming
right around the corner.
she is in front of a fire
on a log, there are logs set
out like it’s camp
or there are others expected.
and all she says is
wait, be careful
what you say
and holds her hands up.
she kind of walks towards me.
she is young but her.
but like also her child.
like, I mean, if she was
a child.
walking up,
hands out saying
be careful what you say.
and then I just wake up.

and then wake him up

“datura moon” or “the story of us”


there are two giant
bruises on each thigh.
I am careful not to hit them
with my fingers except
I already have
and I shriek.
you don’t even ask.

I spent most of my time
that late winter
what you would say:
combing through options,
in flux and in search of
and some guy,

a stranger
in my house, said to me
after I had given him reiki
for money, for rent,
for phone bill,
smirking on my apartment floor:
“Smile.” and added.
“What do you look like naked?”
and added
“How much to see?”

and I stood tall and robust
like a weed in Kensington’s
concrete garden:
stepped on but
won’t go away
and  then
suddenly growing
into a gun.
not only that,
but suddenly
making rent.

you don’t even ask. 

“doors #5”


when you look at me
you see a long hallway,
you see a pointy
knob, you see
a mutable exit,
opening to close
and over
and over
and over.

“affection #2”

 I know I’ll always be ok.
by purpose, my name
will be forgotten. my real name.
I am thinking back.
if you can’t keep up,

this is winter 2014. but it is also
winter 2017.
it is also summer 2020.

the day I arrived in the hotel
in the financial district of New York

to meet a Russian photographer
who promised me a night in an expensive
suite and a binding contract
that has been violated over time
without my awareness,
my nails were painted
blue to match my
bruised knees.

spread more, all the

I thought that was
cute. he gave me a fishnet
black onesie I ripped a hole
in but wear on dates
to remember us by.
and even though
he took advantage of me
and you felt betrayed
by some unshaved labial
part of me,
I made my half of rent
for once.

in the car from the bus
stop on my smile
spread and the bickering

couldn’t dissuade
the new confidence.
the way money feels
in an envelope.

ok, chill.
fuck, I got rent.

“doors (#4)”

the third is ennui.
you become overcome
with a sudden fatigue.
almost as if you are floating
through it all
but not as happy or light
as that. like you’re being
controlled by a beam.
it’s more terrifying the
grip this new surrender has.
your arched back,
your upward gaze,
some kind of nothing
and the laughter is braying:

so deep and directed
at you.


 At three pm,

I show up to confession,
just my tourmaline in
hand, hair covered
and I begin.



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