I don’t really like the first one. Wide eyes, array of flyways, and half-hearted attempts to Hide a five o’clock shadow. The morphology of my face. Neon pink glitter nails and nylon Camping tents. I pose shirtless. Bearing bleached cutoff shorts. And twisting clavicles. Rearranging fabric and unwinding curls, I put myself together then deconstruct ...
Hey, could you lay your forearm on my leg And hold still so the nail polish won’t smudge? With the window propped, fumes rise straight to my head. Fingertips alight with biotic touch. Our fingers tangle between lip-gloss shine, And swallowing stones. Girlhood rituals. Except I’ve not been a girl in a long time, And...
I sought for something absent in dead-eyed photo throwbacks. Nothing there, so I entered that graveyard shift dark instead. Tripping over street corners blown out by slackened snowbanks. Uncontrollable. Just how permanent marker bleeds spread. With my palms facing upwards, I absorb streetlight prayer. Snow crunches behind me. Wires tangle with gyroscopic breath. Oh, Computer...
