poem: my father is a sociopath

number the stars, the sluts, the saints: we are all here, in a hell we can't escape. and my father said I was just like him. my mother said if I painted my nails black I would become a heroin addict, a fucking drama queen. can you hear the lights in the city flickering? they…

poem: what isn’t polite but is poetic

there is a strange boy just across from me and if the universe was titled the other direction the stars would fall drunkenly in our laps and then drip out of our too-small reach, their dying tails in my grey sweater and his wrinkled shirts. i think there is something fundamentally wrong with this boy…