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”

0

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.

0

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”

0

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”

0

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”

1

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”

0

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”

0

one time I came home
and the youngest cat was missing.
keep it together.
I assumed she had evaporated
into the ceiling at the request of
my eldest.
YOU DID THIS.

keep it together.

my youngest cat cannot
meow, she squeaks,
I call her squeaks.
and I sat silent in that house
waiting til I heard her
stuck behind a crate in the
closet.

keep it together.

I almost texted you to
tell you that my cat had
vanished but there was still an
ounce of self preservation,
I’ll admit,
no more than that.

“the texts”

0

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑