Syringe I watch the plunger sink under your thumb, pushing the substance through the syringe and into your vein. The needle has bitten into your I AM CELEBRITY tattoo. I remember watching when you got that tattoo. I remember you telling me it was for the part of you that wanted to compete and win; to be famous; to be a movie star; that wanted to be loved, that wanted to be everybodys hero; that wanted to be known, that wanted to suffer while every one watched and did nothing to save you; the part of you that craved drama, tragedy, and crisis. There are track marks all over that tattoo, and I remember watching when you got all of those, too.More Like This
With the needle still in your arm you look me in the eyes and say, I may get high like nobodys business, but honestly, I dont do drugs.
Maybe its the dragon I chased earlier lying to me instead of you. It must be those sharp teeth b
How to Be a Smoker I fucking hate the rain. Some people like how it sounds and that’s nice, and some people say it cleans up the streets. All I know is that my shoes are dirty enough without having mud on the inside, too.More Like This
Students are already filing out the door when I figure that it’s been another hour of class wasted wondering how nasty my socks are now. The rain is pounding against the thin roof of the lecture hall and as I head toward the doors, sidewalk outside soaked already with footprints and puddles, I realize that I don’t own a fucking umbrella. It’s the beginning of the fucking rain season and all we’ve got to show for it are two hoodies and the jacket Pierre eats in, sleeps in, and probably shits in. And before I know it, I’m bumping into the girl to the right of me with the bright yellow umbrella still tucked into her backpack. Her books spill out of her hands and I motion towards them, picking up a couple an
anecdotal (red terraces)1.More Like This
as i sat picking fruits from chocolate cherry trees,
grey mice circling my toes, i wondered
if there could be a way to find the unfound.
when the moon looked like the sun last night, casting white
over fields of dust, my eyes felt like chrysanthemums
and my fingers were rolled-up rose petals, grasping.
if this fawn could speak silver-tongued to me from beneath
the black feet of my crashed car,
it would teach me something about looking towards the light,
or at least how to see the unseen.