Inside your chest there is a Mexican jumping bean
I love him.
I can imagine the way he twists and turns
the way he would feel in my palms.
I remember your chest being bigger
stronger
It was an oak tree
that I could climb.
Your chest is only a jar
holding a Mexican jumping bean
like a caterpillar science experiment.
If a jumping bean makes a cocoon
around itself
it will emerge
a burrito.
we were sitting in your bathtub
fully clothed
navy hoodies pulled up over our heads
the wonky-eyed face of the faucet
judging us
the shampoo bottles
listening closely
the water glass was too big in my hands
I could fill the whole tub in one swallow.
It wasn’t so big in yours.
in the bathtub fully clothed
everything is funny
you are a man
i am a girl
i wonder which eye you are looking through.
you can look in the mirror.
i cannot.
in the bathtub fully clothed
your shower curtain torn
I am all knees
the walls
somewhere between red and orange.
my finger has stopped bleeding
but I can feel the moving gap of a palm sliced open.
you said I should never do anything that was not me
1st – an insult
you don’t know me.
maybe that is me.
fuck you.
2nd – a questionable look
everybody else chanting
grow.
change.
bloom.
digging your fingers into my skin
stay.
We once spoke
of words and their lacking.
Clack-clack-clacking of teeth
mere mouth meat.
There will always be words
in-between-words.
Now,
your mouth fits differently
situated around this foreign body
[you salivate & gag]
teeth clenched around almosts
toosoon toosoon toosoon toosoon toosoon tooscared
The word might mean ______.
The word might mean ______.
We don’t know.
I’d say it’s like
early morning
moonlight
& happy.
Really-fucking-happy.
The incense was burning (trying to override the smoke of three-dollar premium tobacco – and what premium anything is only three dollars? I don’t ask.) and we were talking about what we talk about when we talk about opinions. I was shell-shucked and said nugatory. Why? Because I don’t care. Because I don’t think about it. Because I am privileged enough to not think about it. Because that makes me a terrible person. Because that means I can’t talk about things – if I don’t care about them – if other people do. That doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion. That doesn’t mean you don’t. You were writing an article about it and I was trying not to think about it. I was busy lying on your bed defining “aesthetic experience.” I was busy blending into your black comforter in your clean room (mine had turned to chaos overnight) thinking about how definitions couldn’t really mean anything and if I were to go back and name the animals I would have been a bit more creative. Or maybe not. But you waited. You didn’t say anything. You knew that I had an appreciation for silence, for those who pull back on their own momentum and pause to take a look. You stopped – knowing I would open.
Her arms
bent up twisted
oars.
Drowned
Drowning
Swaddled in the white lie of linen
Eyelids twitch
twinkle
Self-enfolded
Implosion
Mimicry:
A refolding
Reverse-bloom.
Her hands
Smaller-scale versions of her
self
she –
the dead spider
I dreamed I was Ben Gibbard
and I was pile-drive – pummeling
my cock
into Zooey’s lipsticked
asshole.
I couldn’t sleep that night
we slept in your bed
instead of mine.
It was made for one but I knew
I was not
the only
one
to lay in it
to lie in it
before.
We were close
tootootoo
close.
I dreamed without sleeping,
I saw children with bulbous
brains
with cerulean irises,
they couldn’t be human.
What does it mean to be human?
Does it mean that we hold
each other
by the
hollow
and shove ourselves
down The Other’s
throat?
Claw at The Other’s
ribcage
saying, “I will make you free.
But it’s only me.”
One bone slipping
into the space between
The Other’s?
Pop pop pop.
It is only me.
Pop pop pop.
Rape Culture is real. And rape culture teaches our kids that an absence of ‘no’ is an...
Okay I really like it now :)
Last ones
wisdom
A short Google poem
