We need to talk (AKA a poem I’m kinda scared to post on a blog that a) is linked to my school newspaper and b) that my grandmother reads)

Close your fist around my ligaments, feel static electricity at our Fingertips, swallow my knuckles with your palm sweat and hangnail and scorched blood marbled like scabbed countertop, self-inflicted stabs On cutting board, serrated smiles because Maybe then we can heal- of-the-hand, Sign to me                     … Continue reading We need to talk (AKA a poem I’m kinda scared to post on a blog that a) is linked to my school newspaper and b) that my grandmother reads)

In which I am silenced by the Confucian Patriarchy (a prose poem I wrote in lieu of AP World notes)

I elected to be the half-moon face of Empress Wu’s chapstick. The Small Cottage had less power and no generator, so the scholars determined that democracy was okay there. A heat wave reduced my waxy pore-craters to a waning crescent, while intellectual blue stockings rippled over goosebumped grates, and my yeast-painted lips swelled in the … Continue reading In which I am silenced by the Confucian Patriarchy (a prose poem I wrote in lieu of AP World notes)

My Fear is afraid:

of Alarm Clocks because the numbers one through nine are formed with the same dashed panels, burning the fluorescent, merciless truth into stubborn retinas.   of Sleep, of citrus-induced nightmares; he drinks midnight fruit juice to increase productivity and panic attacks.   of losing himself like keys, of becoming the wrong pattern of sharp like … Continue reading My Fear is afraid:

My Sadness Starves (a prosey sort of poem)

My Sadness spends too much time at the vanity with baby wipes and sharpened kohl and too-sparse eyebrows to afford breakfast; she is a full sort of empty anyway and will not be spoon fed chocolate pudding with plastic cutlery, will burrow into the couch cushions until I give up. We watch the 6 am … Continue reading My Sadness Starves (a prosey sort of poem)

College Drivel in Reverse-You get it first!

How (not) to turn a page   If you find that your padded fingers Loiter within the half inch of page words Don’t occupy--my darling, do not fret.   Perhaps a passage calls you back, Having been skimmed over the first skip through, Missed by the stone of your conscience- Go back and read it, … Continue reading College Drivel in Reverse-You get it first!

Overdramatic College Drivel #2: Smoked Sugar

Ruby Ashby clawed sightlessly at the flimsy dollar-store trellis puttied onto her wall when the parents first moved with late night murmurs of “need more space” and fond cooings over a “growing baby”. Her eyelashes seemed stitched together with tears, tongue coated no longer with saliva but with the singed remnants of her world. Ashes. … Continue reading Overdramatic College Drivel #2: Smoked Sugar

College Creative Writing Drivel #1: THE LAKE

  Their stories fit together like the Indian Puzzles that rub feet and fingers raw-we reassemble grooved stalks until they are frayed and flimsy as muffled sand beneath tunnels and towels and toes. Wave-worn dykes punctuate beaches, inconsequential barriers over which stones and generations spill. Hasty scuffed knees on crisscross wires are bandaged by remembering … Continue reading College Creative Writing Drivel #1: THE LAKE

We are the Lloru (aka another semi-evolved Poetry Bit)

If you sprawl on the January sharpness- cloak your collar bones in a shawl of chiffon, frozen hexagons we call snow in Babylon-   and yawn to the profile of czars, gilded crowns studded with half-grown stars, tell me. Does the pillow-thick air rush to the depths                                           Of your stomach, Rest against your vertebrae, … Continue reading We are the Lloru (aka another semi-evolved Poetry Bit)

Exhalation: An Existential Stream of Consciousness

I am partial to half-used journals. I don't allow myself the first three lines, already occupied by the font I have dubbed Gloria after its writer (who most likely was not named Gloria) or a hasty birthday message for Chris (who obviously did not appreciate the notebook). It seems I haven't outgrown training wheels, need reminding that … Continue reading Exhalation: An Existential Stream of Consciousness