the good // the bad

the good— no longer do i have to endure
the same tall tales, the nostalgia, the
discrete blowjobs, every last “you’re so
cool”. not that you aren’t, but it
gets old feeling like a violently
collapsing star in your universe
of yes men. i have
never felt less sure of
myself, more minute
than i did standing by your side.

the bad— our shared language was
hiroshima’d in my backyard, photostrips now a mausoleum.
i’ve tucked them away one
by one. you never gave me credit for
jokes or photos, and now, the
pieces will never
fit again. we clash vying for
the same love. i hate how i miss the
way you pomp your hair, the
deliberate way your hands move
flipping the record. bloodies and wry
smiles and shared dirty jokes, zapped.

i am tired of this dynamic.

girls on film

watching me give myself to You
on repeat, flashing across my screen—
studying your face as you feel
Me, that first moment of warm lust
fulfilled. watching you slightly
slacken as we envelop each
other slowly, slowly now.

your strong arms around
me, grabbing, pulling
closer. feral and begging for
more, gliding sliding nerves
neverending. we find our stride.
smoky glances as you get closer
to the edge, that vast precipice to
dangle your
self over. hanging on by a
thread, snarl as your eyes roll and
narrow, deeper and
deeper please. guttural determination
washes into your voice, you
grabbing me as i
grip every last pulse while you
explode, pulling closer and

drag my finger across the screen as
on me, on repeat.

knew it was a snake

when i picked it up.

you always told me i’d
get sick of your shit, and you
were right. being so similar in all the
wrong ways sure is a bitch to
contend with in the rocky aftermath
of the mess we made. dig your heels
in, i’ll only dig deeper,

we are best at hurting each other, even
though there was heavily guarded
sweetness under layers upon
layers of bad habits and booze. i thought
I kept high walls, they are nothing
compared to you, reeling me in and
then pushing me away with
both hands. nothing will Ever feel
as cataclysmic.

i miss you and then,
i really Don’t. crashing waves
of relief sear my solar plexus when
people don’t know your name. i can
go back to myself.

ellen grove

sitting on the linoleum quietly watching the
washing machine spin round and
round. the ones in the states don’t have
that concave window and my
four year-old mind couldn’t get
enough of its hypnotic
spinning. quick, then

i still feel a little entranced just thinking
about that afternoon— the rain hitting the
windowpanes, how that kitchen
always smelled a little sweet. i had my
brand new red wellingtons
on, obsessed with their
black pull handles.

for whatever reason, i recall feeling very
Grown Up, and who knows
what the fuck the rush
was all about.

the way–

my mind trips sometimes on
the details of You. the way
your forehead shifts when
you laugh or squint,
growl or get close. the way
you move your hair
to the side. the way
your eyelids flutter when your
green eyes roll straight

i try to memorise your face, re
call it best i can—
but i cannot seem to
find my way.
i can easily recall how You feel,
holding me down
with wet desire.
firm and delicate
dancing at once, furrowing
your brow as you
burrow into
me over and over
and over.

the two of us ablaze, now— Those moments
remain clear as day.