Sequel

Notoriously S.A.D.                 my life is divisible into quadratic chapters, periods of lifeless drowning and red lipped, diamond highs.

  1. supermarket produce lobs from ear to ear, white walls white-wash my blush and my veins turns to digital wires.

that halcyon of teenage revolution so broadcast on the small                                                                       screen screams at me in irony. paper pennants so previously                                                                       golden washed in immortal sunlight paper cut me in dreams.

 

  1. I AM the queen of reservation, so regretful of string-can sequences and moonlit traffic                                     dances, driving down freeways with car doors wide open (enough to fly?) and sink my teeth into                                                the moon until it  drifts away into unfamiliarity.

 

 

  1. post-it-note love letters to my own heart, Jerry Vale-induced advice for my dome, cranium, edible gardens only rely on the unconventional. mail my

orange-juice-tear-covered heart through the mail for proper unconventionality in love letters.

and bite off my finger prints, change the DNA in my saliva, delete these postage stamps so the only memories live on in red-light windshield reflections on

summer evenings.

 

  1. the architect maps out my loss of youth on blue-prints, carving moon-shaped scars on my thighs, imprints on cinema chairs reflected in each.

I miss him like a missing lung, living a half-life, spray-painting rose colours over my eyes. fool me into this elysian landscape.

girl crush collaging, wrapping herself in both our love and loose-cannon planetary rings sting with each collision. it is an ode to forgetfulness, to the sustainability until September, yet forever etched in charcoal, infused into pores. bruises flourish in secrecy,               in tandem.

 

  1. second prayers to teenage deities, second pairs that lay on bedside table lights. dirt between keys is the dirt beneath finger nails.

weave your fingers through air and fire,  place your hands on my knees and push my rolling pin-chair through doorways and windows and yell for look-backs, but send me morse-code winks and blinks and force me to turn away.

 

otherwise I melt into your phantom arms and lose myself.

 

Leave a Reply