directions of destruction

directions of destruction i cut my wrist. vertical. crashing. slay. horizontal. a lay down way to say these are the ways that i hurt myself. pay. choking descriptions of “it’s a bad day”. i am telling you what i never speak. step into an orb of utter. alone. one impossible notion. being weak. i’m trying to explain. i know no one. i’d rather be written off. forgotten. i was recalled once. result? abandon. realize, i stopped imagining...

this. bitch.

this. bitch. The way she follows you is laughable. She is a painter who is seven years younger, five pounds lighter and many lifetimes of practicality unborn - than me. I have this odd way of stating things. Like how on the day we met I told you to move in with me. She doesn’t know me. But she follows me. She reads my blog. She masturbated to one of my photos. She thinks about me much more than I ever consider her. She only crossed my mind...

affect (of affliction)

affect (of affliction) this morning. you will not. not ever understand that. last night. when you arrived i wanted to get better. even though it was six weeks ago now. nearly seven. numbers are one of the things that i obsess. over. only obsession is nothing compared to the way that i am fast. this impulse. this. sudden. shock. this place i explode and destroy and remember to(o) always forget. amnesia’s embrace. like a soft comfort that you...

impulse ignition

impulse ignition i wrote. poetry. for and about him. too far to speak. i metered emotion. off switch. flick. let’s live like there’s no within. like my heart un-heavy, my song unsung; desire to explain an… impossible. like, you can’t exist when everything died. thrown from bikes with never a tricycle. external perception controls inside. learning walk away without needing stand, weather pattern thought switch. erasing now. disappearances...

sunday thai

It’s just after noon in a small Thai joint somewhere in the east 30’s on the corner of Madison. I enter the establishment wearing a t-shirt with a typewriter on it appropriately labeled “writer” in courier print; a tipped Kangol hat; and a pair of men’s carpenter pants, cut to fall halfway down my muscular calves. It’s hot outside. The “shorts” once belonged to my second husband, and someone before that because they were...
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