Lightly doused
in cramped atmosphere
cradled by my gnawing contrition,
your hand is in mine.
Stroking a painted thumb

nail polish named kerosene

smiling openly.
I return the gesture:
show my unkempt life in off white teeth,
sore tongue,
gums as red as love.

Someone gently rubbed glitter on my forearm to make me
*pop* a little more and I
meant to respond.
My heart is a brass bell,
frozen, staid,
caught between two
hungers.
My hair is up and partially mussed,
dark auburn when there’s sun.
I don’t wear my brother’s ashes around my throat
anymore.
Today is partly drizzle and partly
made up in my head.
You stand, high frequency, taller than God and I
shrink, low vibe and gothic,
in a mixed drink and  someone else’s
recycled prom dress
wrapped around my hips,
daydream of someone else’s
rough lips picking at my thin skin,
someone else’s orgasm
propping up my knees,
someone’s meek kiss carving diamonds
on a weak spine
that is atrophying
rapidly.
On a bleak night
I almost turn twenty six
like this.
Someone taps me,
asks me for a light.

My hair is half down and covering my eyes.
My feet are bare, rooted in mud somewhere near
near a soggy paper plate
that has a dot of frosting on the rim scraped from a cake
that probably read
congrats on breaking indigent!
but we devoured it without skimming
as if ten plus years of bohemian arrogance is anything to celebrate.
I should be dead.
My soul feels disproportionately large for my body but growing smaller
by the sip.
You are muffled laughter and showing another woman the view from the balcony,
holding space for her pain in a way that romanticizes internalized rage.
I am the dark breaking sky
who forgot how to storm
so she just lightly pours
another flask full.
My chest is broken and brass and
coughing politely.
“Ahem.”
I point to the moon
and start running.

 

“the party”

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