Remember working at the liquor store
. where I wished my voice away
. wanting not to wrestle those
. drunk bums rich bastards
. buying bigger bottles of booze.
Sore throat sick a week since Sunday
. speechbox cracked and quivering
. with a cough cough cough
. it came back crippled limping
. cringing through my cigarettes.
I used to vent a velvet air of richer tones
. a dandy deft delivery of
. something sweet inside me
. but I killed it with a dirty wish
. and now I croak veracity.
This voice I have to fight with now
. does not do so prettily
. but starts and blurts obscenities
. tones that try to turn the fractured
. world. I want to watch it burn.
Clicky for the full experience:
Don’t you dare
. grab our brethren
. grab our freedom
. grab our pussies
from where we see you loudly lying
with your face tweeting under our feet
. hide the asshole
. hide the stains
. hide the blood.
We will wear red boots and
we declare that orange is our enemy
. eat the morsels
. eat the marrow
. eat the midnight
We suck the bones of Justice
in the decaying flesh of the Patriarchy
. we who mourn
. we who dance
. we who fight
we are the women in black.
I write of things I keep:
soul-ache in boxes with hope,
and family troubles in nesting dolls,
and trauma with Worry Dolls under my pillow.
when I was eight years old.
Everything in my childhood happened
when I was six years old-
-or eight, or nine,
but- I never place memories
I was in second grade and I lived in Seattle.
* helicopters * whirlygigs *
I remember my teacher had a curly mess of–
–auburn hair, and was mean to me.
I was misunderstood.
I couldn’t let
the insides out
my peacock bruises.
I put my memories
in a treasure chest made of hydrangea
petals I collected when I was a fairy pink and soft
and I buried them in the backyard.
In the backyard with the hydrangea
bushes green and blue puffs of white–
–and the cherry tree.
(Mother of Switches)
One time I got to pick my own.
I was afraid of picking one too big.
I was terrified of picking one too small.
Small like I was.
Welts live in the chest of petals
with the hurt
and my memories
My mother did not keep him with her
and she did not keep him with me
and my mother.
She did not keep me–
I kept motherly care in my first purse
lost in a seafood restaurant in idontremember
I kept motherly love in a barrette
lost at Goth Night–
–Embers on my birthday.
I write of things I’ve lost.
A seagull shat on my arm
from a few hundred feet up.
My white coat is “water-proof”
but it still catches stains like:
coffee, espresso, lattes, chai,
London Fog, and bird shit.
“Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi!”
The PGE man squawks at me.
“Do I look like I want to be
said ‘hi’ to?” squawked at?!
“I was just saying ‘hi’ and
I was just being NICE.”
“That’s street harassment
And it is NOT OK!” I say.
I was on the phone earlier
about my sexual assault.
PGE Man does not know I am
a loaded gun, a touchy trigger.
This walking open sore
wants not to be seen.
Shit. I knew I shouldn’t’ve
bought this bright raincoat.