little white pills
baby cries and mother
this is what it is to be drowning, these
white-foamed percocet waves—
a dream, a sleepless dream and
words steeped in lethargy,
lapping at smoke-stained mattress shores:
i am i am i am and
this is how it has been,
will be, ghosts finding their belonging
in ashtrays and dark lung
we’re tar struck, numb,
finding our existence lost in the
of these bones
the walls breathe in time.
everything is mercilessly
collaboration with seaeyelids, a talented writer and wonderful person
that thursday in autumn and my mama’s voice low like a storm baby you’re growing up— and this is what it is to be a woman blood between my thighs and learning to walk with my head down and this is what it is to be a woman with words like worn pieces of copper in my mouth pushing past my lips into the gutters like forgotten
i hope so.
you let go of her in summer but
she’ll ride you through to winter
fingers falling for the old tricks of
night and vodka like
your hand on my knee and fingers
tracing promises up the inside of
my left thigh / i watch the
condensation make tracks in the
steam of your backseat windows /
your hands your hands and the
headlights raining tender on your
cheekbones / skin and skin and
3AM and i’m the cheap thrill of claws
on your back / 3AM the flame to light
your cigarette / 3AM the gas pedal
inching closer to the
3AM and i’ll dissipate like
blowing smoke in your face /
3AM and she’ll be the one to
from sailingaugust’s ’tell me about someone you love’ project.
you’re the one, in the beginning, that everyone’s waiting for. lucy comes in, she calls you, hands drawing circles on your knees like she’s trying to be romantic.
and then we try and put together all of the pieces of you. analyze the sadness back to the beginning, and the happiness with it, deep inside and spinning.
'the west is preparing to add its fables to those of the east'
and in the end you’re coming up empty.
1: it’s like a photograph-your hands pressed up against the glass, bones protesting, body craving forgiveness. and then we’re all in your bedroom, bodies pushed against the floor, and i feel sick like crying. hands wrapped around mason jars wrapped around candles, wax dripping onto our skin hot, i’m explaining the scars and you’re finding your own.
2: if this were a dream, i would’ve disappeared by now. lucy tells me now how badly she wanted to kill herself, how thankful she is that i kind of held her up.
3: the backseat of your car makes me feel sick and so i sit in the front, feet on the dashboard and then the ground, listening to weird music that sounds filmy and when i close my eyes, we’re not moving anymore.
4: i don’t have anything left
god, i love this so much. v i hope you know you’re a wonderful writer slash beautiful human being.
for what it’s worth // my weight in smoke
i. ribs caging a moth of a heart
ii. a half-hearted refusal to capitalize ‘i’
iii. forgotten inhalation // breathless rambling
iv. 99 cent lipstick stain on the butt of a marlboro 27
v. narcissistic collarbones and drugged-out eyes
vi. a recurring infatuation with backslashes
vii. streetlamps pissing light on the stranger waiting for the bus across the street who happens to be the person you love more than anything
viii. impatient in-patient treatment and refusal to comply
ix. ampersands masquerading as commas
x. a voicemail of stale air
xi. an invasive camera flash (“overexposed or anemic?”)
xii. a smog-filled night sky with an absent moon
xiii. inferiority complexes masquerading as ingratitude
xiv. midnight on december 21st. winter, winter, winter.