at nine years old i noticed that gunshots sound more like fireworks than super soakers
azure, sage, aquamarine. they say those are the prettiest your eyes can get
but the ones dead girls have seem to whisper all the same.
and i have never gone to
church but maybe if god could see me kneeling on the pews, just for him,
he would repent on my behalf.
dawn is only as far away as i think it is. if i ashed one hundred cigarettes,
i wonder if it would shape my shadow.
elegy to the hard working women of our country! paint another flag-red stripe
wherever you want; you are still worth eight cents less.
fairytales are what you have tricked yourself into living for: monopoly money. (remember:
your birthmark shaped like a star does not mean you belong here.)
gravel starts to taste good when the driveway is full of it.
trust me, i know, i’ve tried — have been trying.
how many times can my voice crack in the eighth grade play before i give up?
too many. the audience only cares about opening night.
i am thankful for the middles of the nights i wake up in a sweat imagining your hot breath kiss my
forehead, turn me primal in that cherub way
just know that all mirrors lie, but the ones at the carnival will prove to you what you are. “truly being”
and “perceived as” are antonyms in the feminine diagnosis.
keep up. the waves are rising and that cotton candy life jacket is not going to save you,
the scale steps on me and not the other way around.
listen, i didn’t always think men were bad, but the little girl in the elsa costume knew,
baby, what the fuck is your problem?
maybe if my platinum hair had never turned brown i would accomplish greater things,
or maybe it is the fact that i didn’t cry when you died, just the day after.
nice girls learn how to pretend like they haven’t been ordained.
how many baptisms were scams?
on sundays i like to sit in the bath and keep my head under the soapy water for just long enough. and his hands
feel more like wet band-aids than leeches, then
parental advisory label, but i’ve been wearing lacy underwear since middle school.
did you want me then, with teeth still missing?
quilted blanket on hospice bed. yes, it’s me, gramma. no, you live in michigan now. yes,
i am sorry you feel trapped. a broken clock is right twice a day, but you are angry all the time.
rhinestone tears — collect them, quick! natural artifacts of womanly stereotypes sell well.
what is art if not the most honorable detainment?
still, the pills from three days ago lie on your desk amongst dry mascara wands.
lick the sugar off of their capsules; leave the innards stale on your fingers.
those same fingers i use to count the seconds, the ones i hold in my hands like heavy stones,
let myself be the one to do it: do something.
understand that heat flattening my hair makes me warmer than my father’s hug,
but it doesn’t burn more than vodka in a ceramic mug.
vermillion pools on the bathroom floor, it expands, it ridicules, it is blurry,
is it the petals of the rose he gave me on our second date?
when did father forget to put down the bottle?
how it could have once been you he refused to put down,
x-ray says my bones have always been broken.
concealer cannot hide the bruises.
youthful hair made of rosemary, skin of tissue paper.
handle with care and trim the stems.
zero seconds before and zero seconds now.
i was always made of clay.