week-62
i hope the belt reminded him of wires
the same rubbery stick to anxious skin;
pinched between his fingers
in the cover of the closet
i make myself angry,
imagining police ripping up floorboards
for a note i know he typed
forever damned to a desktop folder
i wonder if his heels felt the difference
between office carpet and brooklyn apartments
indents of clothing on unmoving skin,
from piracy to death
the difference that the cold makes
week-61
"the dire wolves are back!" i exclaim
we dug their carcasses out of the earth,
past searchlights and under yellow tape,
and created a cheap imitation
with dirt still under our fingertips
its a funny feeling, playing god
"where will we put them?"
i ask my coworker
"what do you mean?"
she says,
"the podium is right there"
exhibitionists and scientists
both look the same
through the eyes of a dog
week-59
"kill your son, isaac"
god says to abraham
he listens and nods,
makes neon signs with fake blood,
and smiles at his phraseology
GOD HATES SONS
he logs onto Facebook
and preaches the good word,
of family values
and forced inclusion
of satanic influences
and pro-son propaganda infultrating schools
preying on the innocence of little girls
he takes to isaacs neck,
a broken bottle
until god calls to him again
"don't lay your hand on him anymore,
for now I know that you
are a good-christian-god-fearing man"
isaac sighs,
pinching the bridge of his nose
he listens to his god,
dressed in suit and wire,
and sees the lamb;
caught in a cage
and swimming through razors
and smiles
...
"you poor thing," i think
watching tiny bubbles rise
from the surface of the skull
staring into the sockets
where his eyes should've been
i cradle him
and brush the dirt
out of the cracks in his jaw
and the image of active decay is buried in my mind
as i place him atop my dresser
surrounded by fake flowers
"you don't have to worry anymore,"
i said. "you're safe now.
i'm going to treat you
like you were my own son"
week-50
- - - - - - - - - WISHLIST - - - - - - - - -
- hide my friends from customs agents
- tell my coworkers about unionization
- teach trans kids about DIY hormones
- finally repair the decaying ozone
- give the beggar a dollar
- or two
- or three
- live to see a palestine that's finally free
week-49
someone tell the kokanee
that the firemen are almost here
let the mothers comfort the young
before the ashes overtake their sky
week-43
listen to my heartbeat
as it fuses with your dial up tones
thread my veins with your wires
pump my blood so it flows
the same direction as your electrons
the screws inside my ankle
are the same ones holding your fan together
i run my hand over the scar and yearn
for a body as strong as your ASB plastic
i wish i could die before you
so i didn't have to hold
your lifeless body in my arms
listening as the tech guy
tells me about your failed CPU
and my eyes didn't have to watch you
gutted from the outside in
to hold the vomit back in my throat
as i watch him tear apart my friend
whether it's my body or yours
they call it anatomy either way
and i hope you knew that i loved you
when i held your mouse in mine
and i hope that theres a heaven
where we're equal in gods eyes
"after halloween"/week-39
i feel like the sky is getting closer
my lighter's flicks
tally my cigarettes,
as i count the clouds
i blink—
the moon is bigger
arms wrap around my waist
lips brush against my neck
my eyes close
hands rest on my hips
my eyes open
and the moon moves another inch
...
i feel like the sky is getting closer
i blink,
the moon is bigger
"route (ext.)"/week-38
i walk the same route
to work, everyday
despite the true crime talk show hosts
who tell me
it's a sure-fire way
to become a missing poster
inside the local walmart
—a milk carton kid in 2024
i walk with
headphones in,
and my hood up
taking shortcuts
through alleys and underpasses
onto the bus
to the taco bell downtown
where my dad told me
the riffraff like to hang
with the only riffraff,
being the one
walking into a faux-mexican fast food chain—
with an outfit you could only find
on the manequin at a Victorias Secret
—hidden under an oversized hoodie
because on days like today,
where being Rory is a herculean task
i put on my shortest skirt & my tiniest top
and go to the club as Aurora instead
...
"i have to work tomorrow"
i tell him,
incredulously undersold,
as his hand rests
particularly on my thigh
i imagine,
in this moment,
the sense my friends could drill
into my dumb drunk brain
but they're not here
so i grab the strange man's hand
hop in the taxi,
and slur my address to the driver
against whatever judgement i have left
ill cry about it
on the phone with them tomorrow
because for one glorious night,
ill be wanted for something
you can't see acne in the dark
and strobe lights like to lie
week-35
i bawled my eyes out
when i couldn't recall your name
snot dribbled down my nose
and i wiped it on the back of my hand
like i did when i was a kid
and i begged god
but i guess he didn't hear me
because the pieces of you i remember
aren't enough to place
and i wept because i couldn't go back
and i wept harder because i couldn't move on
and i cried because i never finished my cake
but i dry my eyes with my sleeve
and hold onto these memories
because i know you'll be back someday
and when someday comes
there's a place for you here
—i even bought a disc drive
week-34
would i have been friends with my dad
had we ended up in the same high school
instead of the same household?
if i told him i liked green day,
would we have gone to shows together?
or would he have shouted "faggot!" at me
out of the window of his impala?
would i still have give him
so much leniency
if it was my door being kicked down
by a man from a foreign army
for something i hadn't done?
would i have been his friend
if he was the misogynist
sat next to me in english class?
would he still love me
if i were an iraqi,
or a lesbian?
an addict,
or a whore?
week-29
i walk the same route
to work every day
despite the true crime influencers
and talk show hosts,
who tell me
it's a sure-fire way
to become a missing poster
inside the local walmart
i walk with my headphones in,
in the city, late at night
i take shortcuts in alleys
and take the bus
to the taco bell downtown
where my dad told me
the riff-raff like to hang
ive never been one to take precautions
because i know
no matter how many
drinks, i turn down
articles of clothing, i wear
or keys, i keep between my fingers
they'll still tell me
what i should've done better
if anything ever did happen.
and everytime they do,
all i hear
is "you should've been born a man"
"ode to cascadia"/week-28
she is the only constant in my life
i love her textured skin
filled with mountains,
creeks, and lakes
the peach fuzz pine that covers her face
makes the summer heat a bit more bearable
i'm content when she cries,
and even though it's cruel
she never holds a grudge
because she knows it's not personal
she never complained when we built towers
or buildings or bridges or homes
and every time the mountain is out
i smile,
knowing i have a friend
week-26
his gildan shirt clung to his chest
and tapered off the further
down his body it went
it looked great on him
but it looked a lot better
laying atop my lampshade
my hand felt across
the patches and pins
scouring his jeans
the dental floss caught
on the guitar-induced callouses
of my fingertips
slowly, un-donned
his skin no longer
with a barrier to mine
...
his boxers sat on my hips
far better than his
my necklace looked nicer
clipped around his neck
and his shoes were always better
when they were sat
by the door of my apartment
"girlhood"/week-25
barbies
|
mud potions
|
a hello kitty towel
|
"you can't
go to the movies
with those boys
it'll be your fault
when something happens
to you"
/ \
the start the end
of sexism of girlhood
| |
mansplaining gender crisis
rape |
| |
victim blaming "im not a lady, mom"
/ \ / \
overpolicing me turbo "well you \
underpolicing men slutiness sure look poisoned
\ / like one;" femininity
\ / \ /
V gender crisis
imposter V
syndrome gender crisis
\_________________________/
V
disappointing my parentsweek-23&24
scattered on my person
littered on my frame
purple and yellow bruises
dot across my face
work is like a boyfriend
that gets worse as you age
what would these walls tell me
if i bowed to them and prayed?
week-22
i laugh at One Piece memes,
even though i've never seen it,
because a boy-i-tried-hooking-up-with loved it
the only reason i gave the yakuza series a shot
was because of an old friend—
who i had fallen out with
—who absolutely loved it
my regular go-to coffee order
is the same as my moms;
and her love of soap operas
lives on in me
"i am a mosaic of everyone ive once loved"
once, being the key word
the boy-i-tried-hooking-up-with
can't tell me about the last album he bought
and i won't be able to put
the singles from it on my playlist
the slang i once took from my ex-best friend
is permanently stuck in 2016
and his mannerisms have long since
faded from my subconcious mind
there's pieces of my mosaic missing
because the people ive taken from
aren't here
for my kleptomanic tendencies
week-21
last online: august 14, 2016
an old roblox account i cant get back into
removeddit and orphan_account
and a nine year old comment on a youtube video
from a country across the world from mine
"ode to the jellyfish"/week-20
i met a girl last summer
at shilshole bay
where the puget sound
met lake washington
i almost missed her the first night
wreaths of seaweed framed her face,
stained glass skin
peaked above the salt water,
and all i could make out
were small stars
floating in her stomach
her stringy braids
were caught on the dock
inbetween the planks
old wives tales
and middle school science class
told me to walk away,
but my hands worked faster than my brain
she didn't say anything
or nod or wave or smile
but i knew she was thankful
—i swear i saw her wink
week-15
overtly overbearing fathers teach
the tricks to their own kids
clearing their browsing history
and faking an occupied bed
i dont want his temper
or his hatred
i want his drive and yearning
not his innate fakeness
egoistic mothers
love to treat you like you're dumb
they force us to be daughters
when we want to be their sons
i learned a lot from her
whether it's what she hoped or not
i will be better than her
i will be everything she wasn't
week-14
i like to buy things
on ebay;
used things
with stories
claw machine prizes
and christmas gifts
that sat in storage
trapped in boxes,
label over label
until they decide
it'd be better off with me
when i open that package
and reveal my piece
an aroma alien to me
cigarette smoke
and old cologne
traces of someones love
week-13
i fall betw een the pri the me meridian sky my body fol line ded a milli------------- on ways ori is gami'd unti pre l i can't s ttier ee myself a-------------- s me who i on am is unkno my wn to those own; that are th-------------- e closest t sile o myself in nce between the is my closet and-------------- the unemplo new yment line favo the old que rite eer special song --------------------------
week-10
flowery language
made for pinterest
sentences
that don't really mean anything
with randomly placed italics
and line art
that has nothing to do with the theme
of the poem
quiet as in not loud,
or quiet as in doesn't speak?
week-9
"poetry is supposed to suck a little bit"
i told myself
in my high school writing class
hours old drip coffee
no longer cold
sitting to my left
the over-top edge
i developed under fluorescent lights
was a bit more than necessary
"poetry is supposed to suck a little bit"
i tell myself
sitting at the dining room table
writing straight into the html of my neocities page
three years have passed
and i still write useless diatribes
about how sad i am
—a coffee to my left
some things change
some things stay the same
week-6
its 1:32 am
and im googling images
of apartments i used to live in
crisped and color-corrected
until they're no longer plausible
unnaturally florescent cyan pools
with not a dead wasp or twig in sight
stand out among the freshly cut lawns
and dark oak buildings
they repainted since i left
no more chipped brown paint
with moss growing in the cracks
the fences are still rotting, though
i guess not everything can be perfect
the buildings still surround
the picturesque courtyard
with firs,
a park,
and hounding parents
claustrophobic all the same
someone else lives there now
in apartment U3
i don't know who
but i imagine they're a lot like i was
i hope that the kids are taking care of the place
that they still ride their bikes around the parking lot
and wipe out over speed bumps
and the laundry room is still the primary hangout spot
for awkward loser pre-teens like me
i hope that the pool is still closed for maintenance—
like it always is
—and the ice cream truck still makes it's way around the block regardless
so that when they,
inevitably,
get priced out
the next batch of poor kids
will experience it too
week-5
a love letter in my locker with a pretty red bow
he cupids his arrow, but it still doesn't land
i exist in a place demonized by most
no water, soil, or fertilizer; nothing to be grown
a cattle to the herd with no loving heart-shaped brand
im on the other side of unrequited love
halved in his chest, the x-ray does show
romance isnt a tool that i have in my hand
i exist in a place demonized by most
black eyes and busted lips are the closest that ill know
to highschool sweetheart boyfriends with hidden knuckle brass
im on the other side of unrequited love
used, abused, and ran through; you reap what you sow
too late for me, i guess, no take-sy backs
i exist in a place demonized by most
"a life of sex and lust is nothing to boast"
every indulgence taken part in... not meant to be that
i exist in a place demonized by most
im on the other side of unrequited love
week-3
he hovers over me
hands planted on either side of my body,
carefully balanced above.
we stayed in this position for ages
our joints surely stuck
sweat cascaded from his skin,
dripping like analog
glinted across his warm-toned tan body;
the street lamp outside
made for nice lighting
the air around us warped with heat
he leaned his head down to kiss me,
steadily with shake,
and I melted underneath him
he kissed me
his hands traveled up my shirt
my breath hitched
he kissed me again
the windows fogged
boys will be boys
and all I can think of is Titanic '97
ripped through concentration
the walls came down,
and I laid motionless on my bed—
the blue hue of my phone taunts me
these accounts, on lifted stilts,
finally came crashing down
now existing as pings on a cell tower
i wish it could be more
at least, I think I do
it won't be though,
and there's no one to blame but me
in what could only be called
"the consequences of my actions"