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Literature
ellipsis
she goes to sleep
clawing at her chest with pinpoint accuracy
for an emptiness she can’t describe,
but hates all the same. tomorrowshe will write a letter: “dear boy,
i always wanted to be somebody’s
flowery poem, but the verses carved in my arms
are riddled with ugly clichés. & you are whyi don’t sleep through the night. if
we were a language, i was the
subordinating conjunction, you werethe punctuation.i remember you in staccato
conclusions, solemn absences
of goodbye”
Literature
telephones and cortisone
Puerto Rico is still asleep
while we starfish aimlessly in the sea -We are like lost men seeking shelter
in a place where the sweating sunis forever at high noon,
ceiling fans turning slowlyand dewy drops on upper lips.
I am the skinny girl in an indie moviewho lounges around in her underwear,
a cigarette dangling limper than dirty hair.A phone rings somewhere.
I am grasping at a dreamlike I am drowning and watching
the surface float away, fallingso deep into sleep that
the stars seem to sing.
Literature
you talk like a travesty
oh, mercury boy, you can't
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
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