Coming to stay

Vol. 1 Issue 2 Spring 2014

Get. Go on. Get gone.
If you ask me, I’ll come.
Leave those heaps of clothes on the bedroom floor
from the night before
when I spent two hours destroying
them all and ended up putting myself to bed.
Please don’t talk to me with your mouth full—
there was no way I could go out in public
being so fat.

Leave the girls and all of their gossip.
I don’t know when we started wasting so much time
talking about men.
Hunting them.
Hunting them into thinking they were hunting us.
Capturing them, then moving on.
We all want to be wanted.
Maybe we’re slutty.
And her with her boyfriend that she hates.
She only has him because, when you’re single,
you can’t be unfaithful.

Leave that one who shoved me against the wall of the Levee
grabbed me by the throat
kissed me and walked away
saying, I hope you have a good night.
I don’t want to talk about them any more.
All of the same ones.

Leave my drunk ass loud mouth
wrecked on pills and bathroom stall rips
all to grind against the fact that I am
an introvert.
But they can’t tell when I’m chewing their ears off
over the top and out of control.
He said, Girl you’re wild and complicated.
But no, no,
I’m really not.

I find that I don’t sign my name anymore.
I’ve been forging hers.
There’s a gunky scream
and he asks, What’s wrong?
I say, I’m just so mad.
No, that’s called longing, he said.
Oh, what? You can curl your own hair
so you’re a big girl now?

Hand em over—
All of those late night.

There I am,
It’s just like you.
A perfect piss in the woods
blueberry fireworks
spray-painted rat skeleton
chainsaw and bookshelf
kinda place.
The corner of the bedclothes turned down,
with “The Pleasure of Hating,”
and shake it all off on a trampoline.

Being there brings me back to
matted, greasy gull feathers—
he would get cracked whenever I came home
with them in my hair.
Crawling with bugs, he said.
I loved rubbing them through my fingers,
peeling apart the barbs,
making cracks then smoothing them out,
right back together.
The sewage ran out across the beach and into the water–
lines of paper mache beach rocks.

All of these mirrors reaching out
to grab me.
That one in the dining room
really is a fat mirror.
The disposable cloth I used to wipe my makeup off
looks like it was peeled from
the engine of a car that was older than me.

It’s grating, laying in bed without a drink
to knock me out.
You’re in the other room.
My skull full of things that I can’t or won’t say.
I end up leaking words so thin
that your finger could pop right through them
like tissue paper.
Trying to write something and hating myself for
not being a genius.
I draw so many things from you.
I wonder what you get from me
and why you even bother.

Back in town and
looking out my bedroom window.
My forehead pushing up against the glass
and everything still looks the same
on the corner of Cathedral and Bond.
My blood is knotted and I don’t know why.

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