aprilwednesday

it’s quarter after midnight. above, blocking needlepoint patches of stars, a whale swims across the sky. she does not belong there. held up by fog instead of ocean, she inhales deeply the thin, cold air, and hopes for the best. i wish i had lungs that could hold fresh air for half an hour. blankets of fat wrapped warm around the muscles of my body, voice slow and soft, heart strong enough to pump blood for miles. you are my ocean & i am not a whale. i only wish i’d brought a stronger boat.

 because we are so stupid, they think that our weak hearts whimper in our uninspired chests, that our blood pools like sludge in our feet and fingertips, that we aim our smiles vapidly at our front-facing cameras to capture nothing more than our narcissism. because we are so stupid, they give us no choice but to fight like dogs for atlas’s position— unpaid, but it might look good on our resume. (now, because we are so stupid, we wonder why our backs hurt, why it’s so hard to enjoy the world when it’s resting on our shoulders, why no matter how brilliantly our resumes sparkle, our phones sit dead on our desks.) but b

 “aquarius, you have fallen in love with the storm again,” the august horoscope reads. it is almost—but not quite—correct. for the sake of astrological accuracy it might be revised to read, “aquarius, you have fallen in love—” (this part may remain) “—aquarius, you have fallen in love in the sticky heat of summer, the air as damp as your skin, heat rising from the tarmac of this flat swamp town.” or perhaps, “aquarius, it will not feel like a storm. there will be no lightning bolts, no thunder. there will be no fire under your skin.” “aquarius, your love will be

i am a collection of dust and stars, blue luster in a sea of inky void. i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth, shaping sounds that matter. i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds, four miles of haphazard beauty on a lonely night. i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight, though the air outside is cold by now. i am the snow at 6am. i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass. i am the snow at 6pm. i am still beautiful. i am the sound of rain just before sunrise on a sunday morning. i am the swirl of cream in a coffee, blossoming and unfolding like a

dear moonfaced girl, pig heart beating slow: passion has never made the blood flow heavy through your stagnant veins. even the clean country air pollutes your lungs and tracing orion in the pinpricks up above on a clear night won’t make your eyes look any prettier. lies come easy on your tongue, greed in your fingertips, narcissism in every glance into the smudged silver of a mirror; you write poems as though applying makeup-- everything in its place, kohl thick, mistakes purposeful and perfect, all picked based on your mental snapshots of the prettiest boys and girls. you learned so well to show the world your beautiful portrayal of s

 i. my father is an electric guitar. he spends most of his time displayed on the wall, shining when the light hits him just so, hovering in the perfect spot. he is not new, but neither is he old-- used so rarely, he would gather dust if he were not kept so pristine. the only music i’ve ever heard him play is carefully rehearsed, read off a page of inky black notes, perfectly following the italicized instructions, con amore bruscamente diminuendo. i never understood the words, but they nestled in my psyche anyway. i always thought he would be better if the instructions were tossed away and he was played instead of displayed, his stri

 please don’t write me as a ghost girl, all blurry lines and faded features that caricature themselves into the minds of those that think they see me-- i am not a canvas. my life is not a blank sheet for you to paint your vision across, and i have no wires in my bones-- you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light just so, like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks and tragic backstories; i am written in the words i discard when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look, you can find me echoed back to you in my all time top five favorite movies. i am the way my hands hurt when i get nervous; i am the urge to speak italian, even though