the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
The sin is existing.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
I am still waiting for the lion
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers, my back a misguided quote
The collective failure of ethical standards
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
I have observed, the theorist I am
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.