the familiar ache as i gingerly
alight on the landing. a Good ache,
mind you, reminding me that i am
still myself, i am still here haunting
my own walls for these years to
come. what are the pieces of our
selves we leave behind, anyway? a
note, a warm feeling, a faded
photograph or three. scatter
my ashes at the Frolic Room.
Personal Nonsense
red bank
“you suck dick like a 25 year-old” he
gasps just loudly enough for me to hear
in this crowded loft of limbs. sweat bead-
ing down my spine, a welcome sensation in
this neverending los angeles wet winter.
it is at this moment i realise, i cannot
recall this man’s name.
easton
you are a series of smoke and
mirrors, an emotional junk bond
where a man once was; or maybe
you were never really there
at all.
words tenuously strung together by
a simulation of humanity, i fell for it
(but not for you). hook line and
sinker seemed simple because you
seemed safe, a lustful port in an
overwhelming nor’easter. not a
sweet boy, not a fuck boy, but a
sad boy; the Much Worse
third thing. vapour and gauze and
blood and bruises. the mess you’ve
left behind before, shrouded in
mystery for a reason.
LA is a small town and you make
it feel even more minute. after all,
misery loves to tell company
to fuck off.
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.
adieu
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 MARS DEN 