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!

Over Denver Again by Allen Ginsberg

(Extremely sucks that he is the Roman Polanski of poetry. But he is super dead luckily.)

Nap Series

I wake up to a room that's not the same, it is grosser. Like a landlord painting a thick coat of glossy white over a cockroach on the wall, or the way each door hinge is cracking white with careless paint and when you run your fingers along the wall you can feel loose individual strands of some old tenant's long hair trapped beneath the most recent layer. I can't help but think, you are too shiny and was the room always this sick green? Every half hour I wake up to the sounds of dogs fighting and snapping at each other in English, they are saying things like: why are you doing this to me, and I don't know you started it and devolve into little bitchy comments punctuated with howls and ripping. I roll over and ignore them every time, when you try to separate them you only get yourself punctured and rabid too. Now I can only dream in shitty lowball shot-on-video horror movies where the blood is fake and the intestines are real, but twisted frankensteined, real animal guts under simulacra of human skin. In one of them there is a guy and a girl, and I am me, I am the main character, and I am in love with the guy and he is in love with me but we haven't said anything, and I can't get rid of the third girl, who is obsessed with him and openly hates me, because I am too nice. But she scares me, and she breaks the things I give him, his bracelet explodes tiny purple glass beads everywhere when she pulls it too hard to get a look at it, when I try to collect the beads she bites and threatens me with my dad's big hunting knife, until she cuts me deep by accident and I push her outside and barely lock her out. She screams like her lungs can hold forever and beats down the door and I am terrified, holding my cut until I wake up. The guy doesn't do anything of course he doesn't believe me that she would do that and I am always ultimately on my own isn't that the real fear? And how did she get into my apartment? I must have left the door open. maybe for him. He comes in with a robot on wheels he invented to follow me around playing me music and I am touched he thought of me at all and that's another horror fuck I am trapped in sentimentality. In another I am at swim practice and slowly everyone leaves and I am the only one left and all of a sudden I am surrounded by men in their thirties white men with shitty beards who descend upon the pool like crocodiles coming back to the riverbank after they missed a strike at a gazelle--in this one the horror is awkwardness and moreover potential energy. The feeling of being drunk and hurt around men you don't know very well who promise you cocaine and trips to montauk, who let you ride their electric scooter and never take you serious when you joke you'll steal it. Sick turnover in my stomach and slippery bodies in water, nothing happens before I wake up sweating and terrified, and of course I am fast but I am never quick enough to outswim a crocodile.

Church bathroom, fleabag, happy Hanukkah

Love is shallow and fond. I feel it when you call me sweet when I'm stumbling into your room when I can't find the bathroom. Can tell I'm not right, poor thing--

Sweet girl, it is down the hall--see, over there, that one. And to the left. Right through that door, sweet, do you see it? Yes, I do, I do now. And thank you, you are rare but you were easy to find: makes you feel like it'll be so easy again (it is easy you idiot). But it won't be. I was lost but I'm not anymore.

I remember saying love is, you see him like he wants to be seen. I am not understood very often even when I try to make myself clear, I don't want it after all. I can be understood very easily but I get told I don't make sense, sure I think that is an excuse (for laziness when I am egotistical, ambivalence when I am realistic, and stupidity when I am cruel).

I want to learn your name over and over forever, I can't see it ever hurting me but I don't ever want to know. And someday I'll stumble in back here looking for you pretending I already forgot. Do you call me kind things because you can't remember my name? Please don't lie to me,  it won't get you anywhere: I could never be angry at you.

In the dark & moving car I close my eyes and timejump to never seeing you again until next Christmas Eve-- I will be drunk off my ass on Bailey's and Kahlua again, and you will be in all black and white, rigid and austere like the Hays code-- I won't ask your name and you won't ask me mine because it doesn't matter, we don't know each other, and I don't think we could. Anyway I'd prefer if you call me whatever you like. 

Written partially during "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" lol -- Love catholicism