liquid smooth

i feel sick when

being poured

like hot gravy on a wet slice of

turkey

drowning in juices,

different ones that are all bad for you

when it comes up my esophagus i’m not sure

whether or not to swallow

i’ve once tasted a man’s cum so bad

i ran to the bathroom of our small

hotel, covered in

grey loose leaf shadows of nothing

but the shower curtain, soaked in sweat,

blood, drowning in

juices and shame just to

throw it all up.

i brushed my teeth after;

sometimes i wonder how the night would have gone

if i let the liquid pour out my concaved mouth

back onto his pelvis. liquid smooth, the color

of a hopeless cloud or my new favorite

nail polish shade (funny bunny)

each time i remember i think of what it would be like

to never have to. i never have to

anyway,

i do know the feeling of being poured

into, like being piped into a

cream puff pastry, freshly baked freshly

whipped

cream, stuffed with a strawberry.

i don’t know what to say

I.

i’m afraid of splinters

and bee stings

water that’s too cold

large groups of people

spiders

sinus drainage

change in plans

sudden conversations

penetration, sometimes

not having the right words

i’m afraid of being too vulgar

of everyone reading this knowing

what i think about when i

touch myself

i’m afraid that the pressure felt in the cage of my ribs

is actually from anxiety

and not excessive weed usage.

II.

there is a side street with four condos,

tall, private

i cry there where the wall caves into itself slightly

there is room to sit

someone must’ve called the cops because one car pulls up

adjacent to me

the surveillance is calming and

reminds me that no one knows i am here and

no one misses me until they realize and

i’m not even sure how to write about this

III.

my fresh snot reminds me that not every feeling is an emotion

and some things are better left unsaid

i bought my first round of cold&fever medicine

these stores have become familiar

soon i will not be able to grocery shop during my lunch break

last year my closet held three pairs of badly made leggings and

a few long sleeves and

maybe a hat or two

my most practical coat was eight years old, the other one

for show

i got bronchitis around this time

for reasons unrelated but worth mentioning since that was

one of few times i was sick

soon these faces i have learned to love (on my own time) will

go missing, and i will concern myself with their well-being until

the scars from summer fade

i’ve made my first clothing purchase, three long sleeve

shirts, fourteen dollars. i take note of the price because

last year i had no job and no new coats until my birthday

all bought by my southern mother

none practical

every year i tangle into the memories from before

beckoning out with poems

i am seen yelling in the streets with my phone in hand

reading from these drafts, not remembering any off the top of my head.

late nights

i’m in love with the fear that comes with passion

it is a shameless addiction and

if that was a problem you should have said something

in most cases “you” means a subject but for

once i am my own case study and i must say

i am getting bored

at what point did consumption become nothing but breathing

i want to be consumed from the inside out to be

saved from the sin of myself.

in the midst of everything new, how could i forget the biting that comes with

transition.

bird watching

it’s only on my way to work

that i feel like a myth.

i had an ex convince me

that birds were watching us.

we stood together reading BIRDS ARENT REAL

in a Barnes & Nobles,

looking over my

shoulder, occasionally

i knew deep down that

i was not the girl

to believe in such

fantasies,

but for him i

could be anything

he wanted. i was

not anything

at that point.

on my way to work

the birds are myths

and i lose myself

in this memory, i

am the myth

and i never

believed him.

(birds and lies and love)

for example

the taste

of your cherry

tongue has

stained the darkest part of me.

...my mortality is yours, along with my body. we are so close. there are things i wish to not know

about you. the way your lips curl when you lie is beautiful.

...i cannot say i know too much about anything. for example, i do not know how to be in love.

twenty

my life as i knew it, destroyed

i thought. how surprised i am

to still be living through

the greatest years of

my life.

being in

love smells like

sweat, lemons, patchouli

so sweet it is to laugh and to

cry and to be upset with you.

my love, nothing can be destroyed

with you in it.

the smell of clean linen makes me sick

i walked by a bed of grapefruits with no urge to peel them all, ravishly, the way he

i know what it is like to be taken advantage of.

(by surprise)

i walked by a basket of soiled laundry with no urge to wash them.

i am no longer washed up.

a man at work smelled of stale citrus.

(yuzu, grapefruit, orange, lemon)

i walked by him with no urge to peel him back.

no urge.

i inhaled deeply and imagined writing this.

i walked by him with no urge to peel his clothes off.

wash them.

dry them.

leave them for someone else.

I HAVE NO URGE.

i have forgotten a lot of things, but i won’t forget to take my clothes out the dryer.

fold them up.

put them away.

fold them up.

put them away.

(did i mention)

i give i give i give

i give i give i give i give i give

i give i give i give i give

i give

i give

i give

i give

spring

my lips coated

slick of your sweet pollen.

i am allergic to

pretty things.

your love’s thick

bud; round, spongy.

you let me

tear the thin petals.

Screaming:

Do you love me?

Do you love me not?

i am full of pink honey

heat, you are my life source.

i will soon go back to protecting

my nest.

let me see your eyes glow

red-like; hot with pleasant tears.

brine

from this bench i

have learned

everything

i need to know.

i have my:

phone, wallet, keys

in my left pant

pocket;

i am wondering

what else could be forgotten

by your early morning

tongue

ocean flavored, drowning

me.

before our date

i learned what

brine meant;

i was adorned in

summer’s briny

hues:

pink pools and

blue bikes, i am

no stranger to

seduction;

from this bench i

recall your relaxed

torso. this morning

i struggled between

last night and what-if.

i woke up in

anguish, you asked

if i had my

phone, wallet, keys;

in that moment

your heart resembled my

father’s, too heavy, and

i am a careless lover.

lavender martini

kissing is gross but i still indulge

i’m not sure what’s wrong, he keeps asking,

i don’t even know myself,

i cannot help but

stare, his face contorts sharply;

it’s so soft, the expressions, sharp and soft,

that is what it feels like when he’s inside of me.

i’m so focused on his face,

i cannot multitask

when i shift focus, i realize it hurts

his eyes close, cross, roll; sporadically like

bad radio service but

that’s consistent, at least, and i need that.

i’m sideways, partly, hanging off the couch,

he asked so nicely,

and he never asks, so i know he really wanted it.

i’m thinking about dinner, how i had a

lavender martini, prosciutto on a panini and fries

i enjoy being tipsy with him, hot and bothered

the lust melted off his body like a thick fog, invisible pillows of desire

i felt it, i feel him, his thoughts

he feels mine too, he’s asking if i want to stop

i say no because he asked so nicely.

the tv has been on the entire time, and if i shift focus,

i may be able to catch the conflict resolution despite

feeling the walls tearing. i feel it.

i feel my womanhood dripping down his shaft.

he loves it.

lists lists lists

shame resides deep and

i could disappear in the lies.

across the world

Sicilian weather, oranges

here, i find the source of life

following the wishing and washing

between large rocks, debris

i follow like God intended

i give in

to nature’s calling, fervously, i follow

into the wilderness, vast as my understanding

more often than not, to be in awe is a

primal act just as the ground digs itself

into me. its prickly shards tickling my toes

between pillows of hollow dirt.

the creek is cold, fluid under the

pads of my fingertips, palms, soles

i think of giving in to the erosion,

the wishing and washing

i think of how long it would take

people (you) to notice

i am full of shame.

oh, if i close my eyes

tight enough, the sparkles become

cannolis and limoncello,

slimy pizza and that bloody

orange.

&iamstillhere

i dream of flesh and empty skulls

curiosity will kill me.

i stand here now, all grey

all glory.

my tits are tanned and my fears, fresh

i told myself the first time i turned over to cry like this

to forget it ever happened. i was five and had felt

my mother’s distance.

i rolled over and

i told myself i’d stop crying

long before i made this journey

uphill. the sky is a

deep plum, droves of patchy flesh-like dirtmountains

and it’s not cold enough yet

for the wind to wipe my face clean,

so i do it myself, like with everything else like

with this walk anyway, from work to home because

these feet are the only thing i can count on.

the kids i see in passing help me

realize i really am all alone and will always

be. not because of anything i’ve done or

will ever do, but because that is the truth

my groceries feel like bags of junk and all i want

is for someone to at least help erase all these colors

deep in my chest,

i’ve learned to take care of myself and

that’s why writing is harder.

i knew from a young age that i wanted to have sex

it’s a brutal act and i was already

familiar with apprehensive pain and

tender loving.