digital bath salts

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

my thoughts always drift back to your
mouth, your smouldering gaze, your
expert hands on (and in) me. your firm
grip on my throat, steadfast determination
as you wet me down with your words,
gruff growling syntax punctuated with
feral moans, biting my lip. of course
i’ve had others since, but you knock a-
round my brain, a low hum, a broken
carnival gravitron taken out by
a northeast thunderstorm where the
pressure in the sky is palpable. size queen
i am Not, but i long to sink down on
your couch just to see if i still Can.

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

i never prepared for exams. could not
tell you shit about the pythagorean
theorem, the nuances of world wars.
but studying your face as You dis-
appear? our eyes locked, that’s clear as
fucking day. furrowing and burrowing and
spitting and biting, your teethmarks
on my shoulder, caressed by your finger-
tips. your thighs still slick from when
i devoured you Before, as you run
your mouth in my ear like a
Good Boy, edging ever closer as you
pull me in, still, the closest we will
Ever Be. the future is a white balance
slate and i lose concentration every time.

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

releasing one another, we collapse in
a sweaty, panting pile of naked limbs
entwined. stealing moments nestled in
your arms, your handprints stamped
on my neck and my ass. priority mail,
tracked delivery guaranteed. you always
said this was when i was the most beautiful,
in your eyes. stripped down, hair a mess,
eyeliner blurred, glasses removed (by you),
emotional fortress demolished. i have
never felt so seen or so safe
in a man’s bed.

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.

i cannot rid myself of the details of You
so, these words are my college try. i will
never truly be free, like that bathmat
that absorbs every last stain. my body
burns and aches and throbs, keeping
me up nights, gasping for more of you,
a man i fear is long gone. yearning
for a ghost is a funny, albeit sad thing. You
live in the backdrop of my darkest,
filthiest thoughts that can melt
steel beams. yet i Never Forget
my mantra;

just because you’ve got pretty eyes
and a big dick does not mean
you can tell me what to do.


i never got to say goodbye to
my mother. though i felt her depart,
cinderblock on my chest at my then-
boyfriend’s house, cooking din. the
air felt different, alien in that moment
as if i had suddenly lost cabin pressure.

never gave much thought to the
homing beacon until that moment, when
i was pulled home. 911, right now, my
mind repeated like the emergency
broadcast system. the crunchy,
crackly sound
that activates
your fight or flight within
a second, autopilot fully engaged.

hugging my dad in the driveway because
the weight was too heavy for Inside.
how do we get to tomorrow?

the Mile, redux

rounding out the bounce of
recycled rubber, hugging curves
beneath one foot in front of
the other.

a revisit feels better than the formative
memory. cocksure at 16, fully chipped
shoulder intact, i am softer now whether
it serves me well or not. compassion lasts
longer than bullish bullshit, if age has
taught me a damn thing at all. take
your time, it’s later
than you think.

make like a tree & fuck off

the leaner i get, the softer i reveal my
self to be. met a woman who was a
new jersey ghost of my former
self, though i was never quite
That harsh. she spent the mixer
talking about her self, how
men in LA are “too soft” and that her
last lover left due to her sharp
edges. myself, i find the men here
a momentary reprieve from war. in another
life, i was tightly spooled, perpetually
having to have been at my destination
ten minutes ago. and nowadays,
i do not require that level
of armour, so brassy and self-isolating. i
can exhale. drop my shoulders. i am still
bold, i am still assertive and
cocksure, but with far
softer edges than before.

wouldn’t his words make you wish
to sheath those edges, i asked— just
a skosh? to evolve?

her whole aura frowned. she
did Not agree. (still got it, V.)


it’ll come back around. years from
now when you’re
sitting all alone at the
applebee’s bar in temple city
because it’s the Only place that’ll
have you and your whiskey, with
scant hair left on your head,
surrounded by
sad sack strangers,

lonely and wondering how you ended
up in such a shit spot, and what you
may have forgotten all those years back,
while you were so busy
weaponising self-preservation?

don’t fucking call me.