poem: even the angels are damned

it is four o'clock: we are fucking in my head. it is eleven-thirty: you have left the room, the lights are off. you did not talk to me, you smiled with an odd, dripping darkness; I am ripped down my inner thigh the pooling coming faster, I put my hand inside myself and I become… Continue reading poem: even the angels are damned

poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason

girls in books do not have interior lives; they are emotion, they are not Thought. And here I am, sitting alone in the dark terrified to go out terrified to stay in— if I pulled myself apart you would find text, an introversion good enough for Tolstoy, but not good enough for—who else? Who else—is… Continue reading poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason

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: girls alone go mad

keep him as an unknown, do not soil him: he is nothing yet, he is just shy; the infinity of possibility in glass lights, in small smiles. do not drain him out, or make him (yet another) overly-constructed fiction living in the city of the dead, whores cheering for rat fights and love sold like… Continue reading poem: girls alone go mad

poem: we are writing, we are killing

I wrote an artist but did not give her art, she was lonely waiting by windows for bluer skies but dying in her head, re-castling to save me: the other girl, the one writing her. we were in hell together, the mafia maniac pixie dream boy blowing her kisses from the burning room, the emo… Continue reading poem: we are writing, we are killing

poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)

I want to have God even in the dark places so that I am not writing revels or anthems but writing glass, writing kitchen-windows so ninety people can see inside myself, inside the chaotic parts where my mind is already on fire, already dancing like tomorrow is myth. So that when I say "I am… Continue reading poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)

poem: trauma

we are girls tied body to body to music: our headphones like veins bringing the low guitars and lighter wails, pumping in the bright noise that keeps us from dying in locked rooms the memories coming like birds in flocks of heat our arms splitting open from remembering we are not talking, we are not… Continue reading poem: trauma

poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk

I am watching the trees catch Darkness, the cupped hands, the branches, all shaking; feminity is caught tight in the branches, the men are earth and sea and sky.   Night stumbles into the foreground; she is drunk, she watches her enthronement: the earth laid thin, dyed with falling eyes, faded mirth, coughing angels. This… Continue reading poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk

poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)

I did not want to be here (again): thinking only and always of where you could be where you will be where I might go and pretend to study, just to feel your small blaze as you walk through the room. it is childish, probably unhealthy; I might justify obsession in the name of love,… Continue reading poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)

poem: confessions of a teenage elitist

i like being misunderstood. but i am not that complicated: i think am better than you because i think about grand things in the shower and you only stare and smile, your eyes drained out, your mind running clear and fast and going nowhere. i have various complexes: childhood trauma, childhood poverty, childhood isolation. i… Continue reading poem: confessions of a teenage elitist