it keeps no record of wrongs.
i’m saying it out loud
and I’m noticing my drawl
drawn out that’s how I know
he’s come round.
placed toffee on the other
mantle the way he likes
try not to ask about
whatever wayward lover
that’s been side eyeing
me or just puckering
their lips and I’m
hor d’oeuvres.
disentangled.
waste.
of time.
but here we are
marking everything
xxx with my fire finger
so I decide to
begin again:

love is patient.

I am trying not to get lost
in the mirror
which is a tall fucking
order (but drawing it
out so it goes
t aaaaallll fucking
ordddderrrrrrr)
when the little girl
enters the room.

the audience is lost,
I know. ok, so
there’s me plus
my reflection
plus it’s
what year and
there’s
how many
folks
in the room?

“Formula #2: Descriptive”

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
searching.
what you would say, ugh,
combing through options,
in flux and in search of
weight.
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 find out?”

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.
fuck.
ok.

you don’t even ask. 

“doors #8”

before I ran upstairs, I went to the kitchen to grab my water bottle and straw.. it is already so harsh; the shifting walls and brightening of any room when you’re on it. I need these comforts. the stairs are steep and they were steep climbing them especially with the bend to my back. I wasn’t scared of the stairs, although truly, one could die if they fell the wrong way down them. I didn’t think about this too much honestly. given all I learned about myself, you’d think it be barricaded but I taunt those stairs in thigh high stilettos. no, it’s the water that gets me.  

my room felt safe. no one is ever in there but myself and the cats. I considered closing the door to lock them out because their obsession with being close to me can feel smothering. instead  I keep announcing to them that I am on drugs. to remind them. such a volatile state but I also wanted them around, and on guard. they had a knack for reading me and knew when I was too far out. years of practice. I knew they’d follow me immediately and better for it. they were familiar and moving, a constant distraction if I needed one. watching cats is a pleasure in itself. I wanted my journal that I had been reading the night before  about astrological placements. I brought that upstairs.. I wanted the decks too.  deferentially, I asked if I was able to remove the placement of the cards  on my altar to use them. it felt reverent to ask first. I feel more comfortable in devotion. when I am honest with myself, I can see clearly I am a fanatic.

I placed them on the bed and sat down. I also had a mini composition book and a pen. the composition book only had a couple notes in it to begin with. it was an emergency notebook that lived in my nightstand. in an emergency, or a flush of energy, if I feel the need to write something I can reach over and grab it. the pages were all falling out but I kept it in some order. I liked things neat even in dishevelment. I focused on keeping the pages together as I swirled in place. what am I looking for? began to read about the sun and its meaning for a person: the ego, the way, and the second house of possessions.  and how they conjunct in natal and synastry. possessive. sometimes I see things I’ve written in different places, breezing by become a saint. so much pressure. so much pressure in my head. flipping the pages but my handwriting is scrawl and perfectly coded so only I can read it in my most lucid state and requiring patience. to read my letters requires patience. things would lose meaning and be regained later. that’s synthesis and letting go of what you read. I used to have a photographic memory. eidetic.I found the pages and flipped back and forth between two of them not certain what I was looking at or if I was truly looking at anything of substance. this  was the house of self esteem. there is a theme here of scarcity. my room I mean. it’s full of things and outfits and art. its also a square altar. it’s also full of money, these walls. I keep thinking. I want less of what I own. I’m not really reading but scanning my lines to see what pops. my handwriting is slanted and shorthand, like a doctors. my signature is merely a lowercase and cursive s but drawn big sometimes.

“the sun is active not reactive.” I put my pen back down. was I writing? i’m incapable of holding any thoughts which forces me to breathe deeply. it feels nice to do it and my spine is pulsing and I can sense more pressure coming. don’t look at anything. I lay on my back for a second. it is impossible not to be stimulated in this world. I feel a buzz in my apartment all the time and noise. what always sticks out about the second house is the possession of friends. the love of buying gifts. the generosity that comes with owning someone and with a will to succeed in some way that forces you to lie down on your orange comforter and plot the burning of your house. I began to imagine setting my house on fire. this comforts me: elegies, violence towards self, the extrication from others.

 deferentially, I asked if I was able to remove the placement of the cards  on my altar to use them. it felt reverent. to ask first. I feel more comfortable in devotion. when I am honest with myself, I can see clearly I am a fanatic.

this next section is called
ARITHMETIC

My hair gathered behind the dollhouse. 

I used to hate when it got past my shoulders. It collected back there in globs. The way I find dust bunnies under my dresser now; that was my hair.  When there was an opening, I would tuck it in my shirt, run to the trash can to dispose of it. Little auburn chunks.  I was a surreptitious child. Mostly, I tried to sweep it under the dollhouse as if it would disappear into the carpet. Hoped my mother wouldn’t dust. That’s how I hid everything back then. With a wink. And scissors. A smile. A wish. Staring at lights on my closet door.  I don’t remember my mother ever finding out so I wasn’t terrible at it either.

“I have never let my hair grow past my shoulders,” I say. “Some say that’s the weirdest thing about me.” 

He looks at his hands.“Remember only one sentence has to be a lie to discount the whole thing.”

I smile.
You sneer.
And try not to laugh
and try not to give
a single thing
away.

“doors #5”

I test men? What?
I annihilate myself
for their enjoyment.

(warming up)