“And you will know the difference between the two?”
“The difference between a truth and a lie?” he asked to clarify. 

“No,” she said. “The difference between how I got here and the weirdest thing about me.”

it was morosity
that ran in the family.
I sat down to the orange tablecloth,
my spanish deck set
    laberinto
every light out,
about sevcn candles lit
and a roller coaster kind of
high, grief taking years to
fully form outside of me,
a birthday present for us,
Matt
and pulled the first card,
    the sun reversed

i’ll always remember that.
october 19th, 2016 and my
brother is still dead.
I swallow a finger full of his
ashes from the black and
white genie bottle I
keep him in and

let the ritual begin.

“the rituals’

shake my head no.

“I don’t intend to hurt myself.”
my thighs are colored: red
and with a finger-shaped
bruise, the smell of
someone else’s
laundry detergent wafts about
me; spectral evidence of being
wanted, licked, used
and
I am windswept,
gutted and frank,
even in malaise, I
fork my tongue to cut:

“I can only cry at hospitals
and then I usually leave.”
lean in, (and they said
be gallant).  he has
blue eyes.
“most of my family is dead.
12 members at least and…”



my throat sore from
conversation. addressing
myself and the little girl in the corner
of the room.
“you can’t see her.”

persisting mucus. it’s an affliction;
laryngopharyngeal and
also, the taste of him
takes my hand.
takes my neck.
takes my waist.
stop talking.
“MA’AM WHO?”

but I just can’t.

where are your friends?
the EMT said to me.

“I just want to be seen.”


“freight” or “nine of wands”

spiders line every corner of my house,

there is honey coating my back

porch, trail of ants

fat with offering

waddle in,

find the underside of my sinkhole 

fat with thread.

the fourth one i call is

“Arachne”


im on drugs all the time,
call it coping,
call it existential
or call it something
fun and playful,
something buoyant,
something whimiscal like
the

“Page of Cups”

(grief)

we prefer rationalizing,
chronicles.
multiple guards around
us, ephemeral
longing that changes
direction but there are
no exits so we stay fashioned
to her tenuous fingers
waiting for the fall.

cards everywhere
scattered for clarity and
I’m batshit high,
mixing herbs with ginger
and then more psyilocybin.
feeling waves form in my gut,
always finding the
King of Cups,
a bath running,
my fear of silence–
an emerging disability.

i write phrases everywhere

and listen to long
chords, piano.
applause.
make words to them–
letters cut from white paper
then burned.
with force, meaning,
avarice.
tonight’s candle.
whatever she is, she
is bright and flickering
like lightning
and sometimes
she is God.

“the sigils”

I just have to make rent.

I read a note out loud to myself,
something I had written in an urgency,
a mania and with its own
staggering precocity these little
messages keep me crawling
on the ledge:
everything that is really hard
          is going to save your life

friends are those who watched me
grieve alone and then called me
stoic
so they didn’t 

reach
out.

I guess I reached out to the wrong
people cuz I walked home alone
at 1 am after asking if you could
come watch me after poison control
told me someone should keep an eye on me
but
you told me to drink water
and lie down
and it will pass
and you’re a fucking
narcissist if no one have
told you.


friends are those who watched me
grieve alone and then called me
stoic so they didn’t
reach

out.

“i told you to drink water and lie down and
you’d be ok and you were.”

I spent that night in the ER
and walked home at 1 am.
This is three months after my dad died,
two weeks after my landlord evicted me,
two and a half weeks after the guy
I was seeing told me had herpes and
ghosted me (but don’t tell them that
cuz then everyone panics), and five months
of continual construction
across the street of my house:
7 am-7pm, six days a week after one year
of there being a giant hole in the middle
of the road and intermittent
drilling being done on that.

and I’m not even really getting into itall just the highlights
just I hope that you have the worst life
imaginable.

“the panic attacks”

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