I wrote that, I wrote the baby part and I don’t know why
It felt kind of butch, it felt like putting all my fingers in
your mouth, it felt like penetration

you can skim-read me, don’t worry
I say I love you like it’s water, like I
would die in three days without

Having a cat, used to talking
to myself, there is a limit
on how much catastrophe
we can handle. 34 left
at the nursing home to die
fell on the bad side.
Since when are we satisfied
with a slow gouge without
resolution and revelation
of the emotion at play?
There was a time when she
cranked up the category, as if
to say, Hey this is what a body
looks like turned inside out!
(I am talking to myself again)
I reconcile that slush-thrower
peeling back the city’s onion-
strata with no space for grave-
yards to stack bodies in layers.
I’ve made sandwiches before,
all the while talking to my cat,
waiting for its backtalk.

I tried on a dress
at Zara.

I took a selfie of my
spaciousness

inside
Of It.

I didn’t buy it.
Even though I wanted to.

Even though I
had the Power to.

but I wanted to
Buy It.







Rage, rage
against your
inner capitalism.

Rage, rage
deep in the fist
of your Softness.







Spotify is trying to get me
to listen to my ex’s music.

And I’m all like
‘Only

if the songs are all about
how amazing I am’.

But really I’m just like ‘nah’.

I don’t listen.
even though I want to.

Even though I
have the power to.

But I do want to
Hear.







I feel Real
waiting for the metro

with other real people.

How do you do it?
I think at them.

How are you so good
at being a human?

In the Loft
people are doing stuff.

Casually asking for money
without having done anything.

I feel real
but imaginary as well
somehow.

I feel shy about
reciprocating this Feeling

I haven’t let out
Yet.