Pomegranate rosary, bleeding god’s glory on your finger tips. I didn’t fart, I didn’t fall asleep, I tried to find my clit and failed – I’m guessing it’s fine to get up and pray. If words were real, maybe we could throw them away. Speak to me in Arabic. Roll the R’s like little beads. Look in my words for keys.
Sometimes I feel as if everything happens in New York. But it’s all so familiar, like there’s a blueprint somewhere I’ve learned by heart. Dancing to Drake down Amsterdam, mind unflinchingly on (capital) him.
To die awake – moonlight fighting for my life. Maybe if I wax. Everything feels the same: rushed love, rushed self-love, touch my forehead to the floor, touch my insides with a word, rushed remembering; a river cleanse. Nothing’s dripping from my lungs.
It is pink like they said. It is raw meat where flies don’t fly. On fire, on fire in muted uh-uh.
Strands of red in smoke. Flying too close to the sun. And the things they said, I said.
Halfway through you start to consult the older you.
They told me I get to keep it all.
At once pushing and being pushed. Dancing till 10am at a place called 67. Right here is right, watch me try to prove it. The sky was blue through a sheet of smoke; golden smiles refracted golden smiles.
WHERE do you put the vibrating toothbrush? Update: which hole? Update number two: then what do I do?
Grew a longer neck following the moon beyond the edge of the frame. Grew hard, and it too was warm. Not like the sun, but just enough.
Everything’s in parts, even dying. Even rivers. Nothing’s dripping.
I think by now they’ll be taking some of it away.
Credit for cover photo: Entitled ‘Is that the moon or a bowling ball?’ by Sara Elkamel.