today is not tuesday poetry; but rather a collection of poems i’ll never finish. in the spirit of anti-completionism, i’m excerpting partial-phrases from my notebook at various points in the year. one of the greatest joys and crushing defeats of having an archive of past writing is realizing that so much of it is unfulfilled potential: scraps of beautiful prose that never found a home or a proper resolution. but it’s also gratifying to return to words that you wrote down once because they sounded pleasant, and to find a reminder that they’re just as lovely with mild age. to see where these could-be stories started and stopped.
feat. what people do; chemtrails; would you give me your heart if i asked for it?; any(young)body; salted oranges
aug 25 2022
what people do
when people say they’re afraid of the dark, i think they really mean to say they’re afraid of themselves of the dark. when the lights are down low and you cannot see your face. you reach out with ten fingers and find the slope of your nose, trace the rise and fall of your cheeks. slow breathing, drumming along the beat. isn’t it funny; doesn’t it feel the same way in the dark, too?
here is what i think people do after the dark. they drink whiskey sours after last call at the bar. they teer in high heels down empty city streets. they set early alarms and pray that, in the morning, they’ll feel better. they read their children bedtime stories from a picture book. they check under the bed for monsters, but all the monsters are already here.
but i cannot see myself in this room,
only darkness
🌠
aug 06 2022
chemtrails
i am so sick of people.
i am so sick of what they leave behind.
i can still feel you. it feels like
ghost pressure in your palm when someone lets go,
base notes of a scent gone missing.
what people leave behind:
traces of themselves for you to find.
i see you everywhere, nowhere.
scavenger hunt. i have been scavenged.
(promise me you will think of me.
promise me you won’t.)
moreover:
cold faucet left running.
expired postage on torn mail.
sticky, oily fingerprints on wineglasses.
mauve lipstick on stained napkins.
if i could collect all the pieces of you,
i could build a full person again
frankenstein’s monster,
i could be, made of you.
fusing all the remains,
until there is little left
(i am left.
you left me—you are made of me)
🌠
aug 05 2022
q:
would you give me your heart if i asked for it?
a:
my blades are left-handed
but right hand over my fucking heart,
i would have cut it out
for you, myself
if only you had asked
it would have hurt
less.
🌠
mar 21 2022
any(young)body
they said the old gods bled ichor,
honey-wine and fine ambrosia,
but you, child, are no god—
when you bleed,
you bleed out.
🌠
feb 14 2022
salted oranges
- flaked salt upon citrus, taste of sweet and tart
- the edge of something raw and unrestrained
- coarse grains cracked over soft flesh, bursting open,
just after ripe - tropical winters.
like an old, forgotten vacation,
sunbeams that broke through the moody clouds - scared to bite the bitter of the pulp, for
someday it might break through - paying penance,
slaked thirst