writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

The window is gothic, church-shaped, above her. She is bending over a wooden desk, working furiously; outside, it is autumn and the light is brilliant and orange. Her hair tucked hurriedly behind her ears, curling out. He comes and stands above her, looking down; there is something unusually serious about him; he is a person… Continue reading writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

poem(s): split

boy in his head she is a woman I knew, when I was younger. she starts and stops— like porn dissolving, reloading into a face like Iceland, two eyes, two fishes swimming into my mouth— reloading their shaking pupils. when you tip your neck, I would like to bite the wet skin. - - -… Continue reading poem(s): split

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

poem: boring afternoon depression

some questions for today: when did my image consume my soul? and how the fuck did i end up the 'good girl'? can we return to the before—when he was still a mystery, when i did not make hell into a casual routine; crying in your room alone to my chemical romance is so seventeen;… Continue reading poem: boring afternoon depression

poem: maniac pixie dream girl

when I was younger I wanted to be the personification of some artist's inner life— i would be the girl with the mask tacked on backwards, the girl over-thinking her image— i would be youth, hope, the red blushes in forests, the red blushes when boys lean in close and say things from books—like this… Continue reading poem: maniac pixie dream girl

poem: even the expressionists could not capture it

he has become worth a great many things—she reflects in the mirror, waiting for him, trying to think how to explain: I feel calmer this time, but everything is more extreme. I am crashing into myself with a neck- breaking speed before only reserved for the real breaking of necks, when pretty girls fall from… Continue reading poem: even the expressionists could not capture it

poem: happiness

I know good things take time—but I wish we were already at the part where he is texting me 'goodnight' and I am waking up with his breath on my back— that we already owned the studio apartment, the kitchen window looking out on cafés and city alleys, the baby in the living room and… Continue reading poem: happiness

poem: blame the angels

I should be writing love poems; I am in love. But I do not feel— whatever it is that the poets promised. My mind—is coming loose and falling far; the stardust hazy, hazy in the fear. the people are applauding, making riot noise: he is just a boy— it is just love. I am saying… Continue reading poem: blame the angels

poem: the unexpected boy, the girl rewriting her ghosts

I do not believe men speak to smart women as women. They talk to us as men, as nameless faceless hommes d'affairs: we are leaning against the conference desk, in a (power) suit, with pin-tacks in our neck and the unfortunate addition of long hair, breasts, adultery. The young adult novels lied: there is nothing… Continue reading poem: the unexpected boy, the girl rewriting her ghosts

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… Continue reading poem: i saw the texts in your phone