an arrangement of penises.

his palms outstretched, expecting more than his fair share in return.

as the petals wilt on my nightstand, so does my belief in man.

a bouquet is worth a portal nowadays.

he snatches up what i drop as if i was spoon fed my dinner. every inch of him always on edge and ready to pounce.

a rose is worth my honor.

anytime i see a man with bouquet in hand on his way to me,

i see an armful of dicks and broken promises.

my soul is surrounded by the wallowing sounds

of my stomach devouring itself.

how long can a girl truly hold on?

i am incapacitated by the physical condition

that i fall into out of necessity for survival.

i hold one door open with a broken hand,

as my foot begs to break in next one to keep it from closing on me as they always do.

i am the unrighteous thickening of shattered bone marrow.

i am a circling cyclone of repetition and repentance, as i spiral downward again for the millionth time.

my bowels hold too much heart for me to avoid them completely.

unfortunately, my body is a prison; an aching, tired prison.

so, how long can a girl hold on?

i told my mother that i am fine. she’s given me all she can, and all she has left are words.

i chase my dreams in a fevered rush,

through a field of famine,

begging to drink the dew of the fruits of my labour before they are ripe.

if only the road ahead weren’t covered in the bones of the dead versions of me who wanted freedom, as i start all over, yet again.

i am stomach as well as soul.

i fear as i grow too hungry, i’ll swallow myself whole. the belly of the whale is mine,

hungry for anything immediately, but held back by the steady, unforgiving passage of time.

rip out my stomach, before it drowns out the sounds of my starving mind.

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it pours its sweet aroma around my head

and fills my lungs with precious dread.

-

i taste the wind as it whips the plants into panic,

the asphalt diffuses itself into the manic air.

-

i feel blessed to be here.

with the earth beneath my feet

and the storm stuck between my teeth.

-

it dazzles on that far horizon

and taunts me.

little does it realize how much i want it

to haunt me.

-

i want the rumble under my body

and the showers on my face.

i want it to wash away every broken place

in me.

-

it envelopes me,

and i surrender.

so strangely placed, i never know where they come from.

i’ve been listening to too much radiohead and it has become my pre mortal tomb.

the pit in my stomach is growing large enough to eat all my confidence and make me question my sanity.

two bruises. one on my knee.

i’d say i’ve slept too hard, except i haven’t slept at all for days.

it’s just me and my eyes locked in this body.

my soul doesn’t know what to do with it all.

i sold two copies of my book this month.

i should be grateful, but i crave the severity of overnight success.

two books.

“summer tastes like you and bites like them.”

i suppose i needed this book more than anyone.

i just want to taste the grandeur of my own craft.

i want. i want. i want.

it’s raining again. maybe if the water hits me hard enough unconscious, i can finally rest.

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i write when it seethes through my teeth and inflames my flesh.

it starts to bite, and so i do too.

i bite the screen as i type all sorts of obscenities.

but can i really write something beautiful?

i feel as though to write “happy” material i must water myself down.

my mother would gag at my substack.

maybe she should.

i’m a horrific bit of alien in a semi attractive body.

would it kill her to know that she created this sprawling monster in that beautiful womb of hers?

i can’t write beautiful things.

i can only write books that people are scared to read.

and that’s fair. they should be.

my thoughts are repulsive.

i am repulsive.

i repulse happy thoughts. but i am happy. i just can’t write beautiful things.

maybe alien sprawling monsters can write horrifically beautiful things for other desperate creatures.

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maybe i do want to eat it

when it’s pouring from your hands into my mouth.

maybe i want to taste it mixed with my blood.

i’m not a freaky girl,

but i do love to revel in self destruction.

maybe i do want to wear a crown of thorns

as you gape at my naked body

and i choke on my words.

this is what my mother taught me.

living with inconceivable rage

and making it look pretty and likeable.

i turn all those demons inward and bark for you.

i’ve never hated someone more,

but you’d be surprised at how much of a whore

i am for you when you prove to me

all i’ve ever known.

i’m a vanilla girl with a dark past.

it’s okay.

vanilla beans are black.

i thought i could take the way your hands went

otherworldly places

and squash them

like a bug.

but there are too many,

and they fly fast,

buzzing past my ear

in a tongue only

the depths of my fear

can understand.

i’m looking for a safe place to land

and i wish i were stronger.

i wish my body was a pile of slugs

then we both could be bugs

and our fates would be intertwined

like your despicable body is with mine.

squash.

i wish i could squash your hands as they hold

down mine,

but you devour my pride

and what’s left of my mind.

i want to find

a voice.

but it gets lost in your bug noise.

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something is burning in the back of a building across town.

it’s illegal but the city lets them get away with it, and it creates these clouds of smog.

mixed with the rain and clouds that come rumbling in at a quarter till six in the evening, you’d think you were in heaven.

someone had the same thought as me.

the wind licks my hair and the humidity whips it up into odd shapes as it sticks to my face.

someone was standing here not twenty minutes ago.

the ground is wet and muddy, but what’s left of their breath of fresh air is dry and leaves a little orange arrow pointing toward the river.

smoking is a sin, but we all sit here and breathe the same smoke out of the foggy air like god intended.

one day i might try it. maybe not.

i don’t know. for now i sit with rain soaked skin and watch another man light it up.

his lips, candied and cracked with the pain i know too well.

he brings along his own little man made hell, and puts it to his mouth.

for now, i breathe in the back of the building across town.

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because, if love is a game,

i struck out a long time ago.

but here you are,

the face of all my dreams

in the flesh

over and over,

like a memory i can’t quite place

but i know it is dear to me.

maybe it’s a whisper

of a future that i could have

that has come to haunt me.

i see it foggy now,

but my mind wants to wipe

the glass between us.

between what we are alone,

and what we could be together.

the questions are aching,

and you seem uninterested.

if love is a game, i strike again.

all the wonder and anticipation,

for something just out of reach.

you sit there, in reach of my palms,

but just beyond the reach my heart,

dangling your love like a bait

for me to land hooked on,

and i strike again.

how many strikes till you’re out?

if love is a game,

i’ve made a name out of trying,

failing.

i try again,

an attempt at soul contact

is all i have left.

if love is a game,

let me lose it in your arms.

i’ll strike out

if you’re the pitcher.

People are capable of so many glorious and wonderful things, and I enjoy watching them create with all my heart.

I find myself equally enthralled and dissatisfied with myself, and my seeming inability to release everything I know I am.

I can think so well, how come my writing, art or music doesn’t reflect it in the way I want it to?

I like people watching. It helps me look at myself less most days. But other days it turns my soul into an inescapable whirlpool.

I am so full of music, but I never learned to produce.

I am so full of art, but every time I bring my hands to the page, they falter.

Everything in my soul is made less when I pour it out. Perhaps I must seal it up to retain its truest expression. I feel as though only I can truly understand what I mean.

But I wish I could write music the way I hear it in my own head. I wish I could paint pictures the way I see them in my mind’s eye.

I am simply a portal that goes in, and all that comes out are the woes and deprecations.

I could be so beautiful if you saw me in the light that my consciousness portrays me in.

I am so well read, written, played, portrayed inside this soul of mine.

My body is an altar, and my senses collect things to place on it.

she doesn’t talk about the first often.

I never knew them, and I don’t ask.

It feels too tender, like I don’t deserve to enter

that sacred space, those moments

of my mothers deepest pain.

And so I let it be, the oldest, second daughter that I am.

My mother tells me I am her greatest joy.

I was the light at the end of the tunnel

of her loss.

“My joy, my firstborn!”

She says to me.

And I hold the space between me and

her first, unintentionally. She’ll never know this, but I feel unworthy. Unworthy to hold that title.

I wonder how many times a day she thinks of her first unborn.

She’s always so quiet, and graceful.

I feel so awkward. I’m not impressive.

I curl up in bed and wonder why

I was born.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t, but I’d never tell,

Except the ways I’m telling you now.

I hold myself to the standard of someone

Who never existed beyond the love of my mothers heart, her joy and anticipation.

And I cling to that.

Maybe, If I make a lot of money, and go to all the schools, I’ll feel worthy,

And not like an imposter.

But I know that’s not who I am.

I try to be someone that I think my mother

would be proud of.

That’s what first children do.

But I’m second first, I don’t know how to navigate that.