United States

she/her. 16, i write poetry
est. sometime in 2017
currently waiting for wtw's 3rd golden age

Message to Readers

The extended remix of my piece "love and art are cursed." It's about feeling unworthy. For fatpanda's #126 contest. Feedback welcome!

l&arc2.0 #126

May 18, 2020


last night/ i woke up surrounded by dead butterflies./ periwinkle/ and you kissed me/ under the lyrics of our favourite songs./ and last night/ i went to bed/ with the lingering taste of adrenaline in my mouth/ vomit/ at my fingertips./ this morning i am undone/ what a strange feeling/ i am on the couch/ body rammed between the cushions like a contortionist/ biting my tongue as you did/ painting your cheekbones with the sunlight that streams through and tucking/ my insecurities/ into your collar.

the ringing in my ears/ is just the universe telling me/ that i am ungrateful. i melt/ tissue paper on my tongue/ and make of it a vegas show./ perhaps/ this is all that we have ever been./ i tell you this as you are slipping past me/ coconut oil and kerosene and you/ play along./ coco chanel/ was a nazi supporter./ i pour perfumes down my throat/ in an attempt/ to be worth loving/ in the silence/ of the piano conservatory./ retching/ in the locker room/ sister playing kabalevsky/ and shostakovich to drown out the sound/ force-feeding me/ scallion pancakes/ and miso soup./ for now/ i am still tearing my eyelashes out/ one by one/ and telling myself/ it is mutiny.

i am an it girl/ this is to say/ pouty lips and stiletto straps cutting into my ankles/ a projection/ dreamgirl. this is to say/ i am here for you/ and you only/ honey/ my hair is wild/ a reflection of your mother’s lost hopes./ i am the mirror/ telling you/ it is not too late/ and i am the squirrel smushed/ by your dad’s subaru that we saw on our saturday bike ride./ fur tangled up/ underneath your fingernails and matted/ this blood being sucked/ off your index finger/ “oh that’s sad”/ and move on/ and you look at me in that same horror/ with which you regard/ the toddlers/ with sticky fingers pointing/ at the pockmarked moon/

van gogh/ ate yellow paint and shot/ himself in the head. mix honey with ginseng/ and moon peeking through almond blossoms. these days i have been/ losing my diamond earrings/ in the back of your throat/ and calling that/ a revelation. you laugh/ and it sounds like streetlights/ at 2am, which is to say/ hollow and useless/ because the moon is already bright enough./ i hate the sound./ i love/ you. my grandmother/ listens to monks on the tv/ and whispers prayers into her jewelry box./ she gives me dior for my 16th./ i/ don’t know how to say thank you.

the cello is knocked against/ fifth-grade portable railing/ and splinters. i cry/ when i smash the container of dumplings/ on the ground and curse/ myself in third person./ quickly/ lap up the shards/ the rest to be mixed/ into ginger teas/ at the apothecary. you/ are gently shaving my legs/ and leaving safety pins in my shampoo bottles./ bleach in mouthwash/ i get/ fresh air after homecoming/ watch closely/ you may miss:/ my ankle giving out by the curb/ and the oncoming taxi./ it was only/ kind of an accident.
For prompt #1


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  • May 18, 2020 - 1:43pm (Now Viewing)

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