An Apology.

Baby, I will part your lips like the sangria you drank on the night I told you we were platonic and you responded by rubbing my knee, obscured under heavy black bangs and eyeliner. I will leave you weightless. I laugh, having done this before, knowing you haven’t. We smile, intimate, separate. Drunk off of the true love of someone else, pretending to be ignorant is bliss. You proclaim you need me and I’m drunk on your guilt. “Who do you think you are?” I’m no one, baby, did you mistake me for someone respectable? Forgivable? Fuckable and forgettable? I will hold you as you tell me you’re not good enough for me, and in that moment you say it we both know it becomes true, breathing doubt into the solace of our silent bus rides and windburnt skin.

 

From the collection “Ladykilled and Manhandled”

Blame It On.

It’s comfortable the way our cunts are magnetized and when I close my eyes I can feel you breathe on my neck. This is how we observe our own comfort, slurred sly smiles and pantomime fuckings we can’t regret. Lay me down like a waterfall. Lover, this is truth we’re touching, some parts of us we’re not able to hide at all. You’re crisp under my fingertips like sheets and our lips are bitten as if to signal to your God that we remember tasting is forbidden and punishment can be dealt through offspring, so let’s keep our hands clean in figurative and literal ways. Just roll your body off mine so we can laugh off this joke. Oh, did you think this meant anything? I clearly misspoke; we are just hilarious confusion because either way we’re losing and I’d rather be  gone without knowing about you.

 

From the collection “Ladykilled and Manhandled”

Were We Happy?

Here is how I choose to remember you: rustling from my bed, unfurling out of my arms and the comforter that acts as cover to deceive us both for one finite second about my realities. You stumble over to the door, you’re always ready to go, fixing dark hair, eyes, circles underneath to show how tired we’re becoming, we’re oh so tired. I bury my face in a pillow that still smells like your hair. Kiss me goodbye, lovingly, you’re lovely. But you’re always going.

 

From the collection “Ladykilled and Manhandled”

D331

We do not think of the future and we forget the past at alarming rates. The present is lived in five day layovers and fastings. Over time your lines have blurred; you used to push me away, now we don’t let go. I have become molded more firmly, drying concrete under UV: push your fingers into my form and initial it. All our moments take place on sidewalks.

Performance!

I’ll be reading my poetry at this month’s All The Writers I Know, which happens to be tomorrow night at SHoP/Fenn House by U of C! I’ve performed at every single one of them. It’s actually how I started letting people read and hear my poetry; Patrick Gill frantically called me the day of the first one with two writers having backed out and begged me to perform. You never say no to Patrick!

 

I’ll also be selling a new zine of my poetry, FALL(ing), and might bring some copies of Animal with me. It’s going to be a grand time so you should all attend! It starts at 8 pm and costs $5 to attend, all of which goes back to the performers.