Magnolia State

I worry someday they will stop cutting the umbilical cord, and let the fetus swing between your legs as you walk, rotting forever showing everyone you weren't a worthy mother. Humiliation and consequences. A clear sign that you have committed some sin. 

 

You lie on the table, unclear whether you are alive or dead. He pulls out a long strip of clear tape, loudly it cries and tries to cling to itself as it is ripped out, fluttering writhing on the end of one finger. The clear tape will stick to his blue rubber hand momentarily; he will shake it off. Your feet planted on the table, you lie on your back. Hot breeze from an open window dries sticky on your sweaty skin. The humming-crunching drone of cicadas, sunshine loud filtered through the leaves illuminates dust thick on the windowsill. The smell of magnolia douses the room in heavy perfume oil, layered over iron and something more nauseous-- flies buzz and plink off of the ripped window screen. He picks up the afterbirth in the other hand, still red and gooey and wet, and places it on top of your gelatin stomach. It's hard to breathe; it's heavier outside than in. He says a prayer in a language you grew up speaking natively but the words don't make sense in order. Finally he lays the tape over it, and you drift back off into sleep.

Look

Picture an empty arctic tundra, pure white all around, glass cliffs rise to fill the background, surrounding the ice, smooth and unscalable. You and I stand across from each other in the biggest puffiest coats you can imagine. Your coat and snow pants can be in your favorite color, I am wearing mine (red). We both wear thick mittens and knitted hats with big colorful pom poms. We wrapped our scarves around our noses and mouths because it's so cold.

We kneel on the frozen ground; it is plain white snow. Between us there is a perfectly circular hole in the ice about a foot in diameter. Imagine the hole an ice fisher makes, the depth and the patient sitting. Within the hole is a cloud. Tentatively you reach into the hole with your mittened hand and find the cloud is soft and tactile, and it tears from itself when you pull on it. I see the cloud-piece in your hand and immediately plunge mine in too, to see what it's like, to touch it for myself,

 

until we are digging frantically like dogs, uncontrolled, hunched over the cloud-hole, throwing handfuls of cloud behind us as we go. Big chunks of wisp fly up over our shoulders and gradually slow down, floating and recondensing, finding each other, and traveling a calm orderly line away from our frenzy. They hit the glass cliffs and slide down, stacking on top of themselves and becoming solid, a staircase surrounding and filling up the basin we're in, an empty coliseum. Maybe later we will forget about the hole and climb up and out, see what's on top of the cliff. Or we'll stay digging until we find the end and we can submerge our hands in the clear sky itself.

Distant

I don't like myself when I'm not absorbing from other people. You can say love is everywhere but it doesn't exist unless you do something about it.
 

I felt enamoured with an old man carrying an upright bass on his back today, and he will never know how I felt, and I will forget about him someday. 

When I am by myself and I have time to observe, I try to notice things only a lover would-- I like the way your legs dangle from your stool, I want to pick you up and carry you home. I like when you think of something funny and your eyes scrunch for a second looking at nothing and you cough because it's the only way to laugh at your own head in public. I like how patient you are with your child and I like the little action figure he's squeezing in his fist like it's going to become sentient and make a break for it; your pretty hands zipping up his puffer coat. I like your neon, and that your key ring has entirely too many keys on it. I imagine how it feels to recognize the familiar sound, my ears flick back like a rabbit straining against my humanness, I want to run toward you. I fantasize that before you round the corner I can hear you coming. That I feel when you’re around me with my ears and nose and by the relative coldness of the wind.

He gives me romance on the way back from the club, I sway home and he walks behind me down the street. He tries to ask me a bunch of questions and I say, haha, no sorry, thank you though! He says to his friend, loudly behind him, Can you imagine you wake up every day and see her smile? His friend says, If you wake up and see her smile you haven’t woken up yet. I am distantly afraid they are going to follow me home, not sharply enough to think of what I'd do, but I turn off onto a smaller street and they keep straight on the main one. I don’t feel anything; everyone always assumes I am upset. It is almost kind to be made a dream girl for a little while, in low lights on a crowded street by people who don't know me at all.

My friend consoles me, you’ll never see him again. I know, I know.

Graffiti in the first stall of the girls’ bathroom at the bar where my friend works

I’ll pay money to fuck Bruce Springsteen
(Me Too!!! -x-
Go Piss girl <3
Bagri woz ere 2024
Juicy bitch here
Roxy Newon you rock!!!
FUCK THE POLICE
PDX PRICK. ONES.
Kiran from Cov was here :)
MAGDALENA BIRTHDAY WEEK 07.06.2023
Saoirse 4 Lyfe
I LOVE MILFS
^ Me too!