poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)

i put hope on the ceiling fan and turned it on and watched it fling off and splatter on the walls; my mother will be pissed, but I want her to know that the blue and the black now coating her plaster is how I feel, most of the time. for context, mother, let me…

poem: i saw the texts in your phone

darling, have you heard of the invisible men? they are all around us, dancing. they are the pricks in your cough when you kiss me, when you tug down my short chemise and kiss my thighs. they are the children we can't have, the dreams scheduled and forgotten, the sense of otherness I always feel…