I lay down with him in a bed of smokeLipstick stains on the rims of his glassesFrom where he brushed up against my mouthAnd let words of power spill from his
A poem about vocabulary and memory.
An essay about joy.
Working through feelings of sorrow, freedom, love, and retribution.
A poem about you.
I turned our pictures face side downAnd stopped playing the songs you sent meRemoved my favorite necklaceWith your smiling face etched into the locketFrom its home around my neckBreathed a new scent that I had begun to forgetAnd others seemed to miss
Every day is a battle against pick-me-ism.
I think about the sun sometimes. Being her. Perhaps exploding with her, our brilliant light streaking through the universe like a crashing orgasm, leaving the planets and stars shaking, thrashing about contentedly.
What does it mean to define yourself in adulthood, separate from the trauma our parents unknowindlgy inflicted on us?
This one I think is meant to be performed. When I wrote it, it sounded like a monologue. Someone telling whoever would listen how she fucked up her plants.