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was no consolation to the woman
whose husband was strung out on opioids.
Gone to a better place: useless and suspect intel
for the couple at their daughter’s funeral
though there are better places to be
than a freezing church in February, standing
before a casket with a princess motif.
Some moments can’t be eased
and it’s no good offering clichés like stale
meat to a tiger with a taste for human suffering.
When I hear the word miracle I want to throw up
on a platter of deviled eggs. Everything happens
for a reason: more good tidings someone will try
to trepan your skull to insert. When fire
inhales your house, you don’t care what the haiku says
about seeing the rising moon. You want
an avalanche to bury you. You want to lie down
under a slab of snow, dumb as a jarred
sideshow embryo. What a circus.
The tents dismantled, the train moving on,
always moving, starting slow and gaining speed,
taking you where you never wanted to go.
Feb 12, 2025
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But now she stands there, perfectly still. Not a twitch, not a blink. Just a statue carved from grief or guilt or something colder. You’d think she couldn’t hear them. But she can. Of course she can. She hears everything. Sees everything.
And she says nothing.
There will be another dream tonight. I know it. The kind that comes soft and fast—like a knife, like a whisper. His face—or what my mind says was his face. Was it him? It doesn’t matter. It was him. It was his friend. That’s what matters.
I don’t know if they’re still together.
God, I hope not.
But I hate myself for hoping.
I wish I were like her. I wish I could stand so still the air forgets to move around me.
Not a flicker of emotion. Not a crack. Not even pity.
Meanwhile my head is screaming,
fuck off fuck off fuck off—
but all I do is smile.
Jun 23, 2025
📜
You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,
but
I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
I’ll walk you to the hospital,
I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
it’s just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
and
I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.
I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
less devastating.
Sep 9, 2024
I hang your jackets in my closet like trophies, or maybe like warnings. I don’t know which. I don’t wear them. It’s far too hot — sticky, oppressive heat that clings to the skin like regret — but I keep them there, row by row, like memory has a dress code. The scent is gone now. That clean, clove-sweet sharpness you always carried. Still, I walk past them every day. I make myself look.
It’s supposed to mean something. All of this. I keep telling myself I’m meant for something bigger — to make a name for myself, they always say — but what name? The one I was given, or the one I’ll have to carve out with blood and trembling hands? Fifty-five years. Fifty-five steps to the top of the hill, up to that damn library where I’ve been meaning to go. Where I keep meaning to go.
And yet. I don’t move.
My legs work. I know they do. They carried me through worse things — war zones of the heart, ancestral curses, kitchens full of shattered plates. But I still can’t make them climb. I don’t know if that makes me weak or merciful. I don’t know if it’s sabotage or a mercy I don’t deserve.
A dog that weeps after it kills is still a killer. A dog that weeps is still a dog.
Your guilt won’t make you holy. Your regret won’t make you clean.
So I ask: when you see a butterfly land on lavender — that momentary grace, delicate and impossible — do you still spell my name in your head, as if that might bring me back? As if I ever left?
May 28, 2025
Top Recs from @coolgal07
New album by Matt B himself, this is such a funky track about staying grounded in stardom. Fucking fantastic.
Feb 11, 2025
i have chronically dry skin, like, sahara dessert dry, and can never find a good strong moisturiser. bought this on a whim 2 days ago (sale from £35 to £9) and WOOOOW!!! for the first time ever my skin is baby soft and my acne has cleared up a bit, which is amazing for just 2 days. if you're hesitant to buy it i'd advise to just go ahead, unless you're allergic to shellfish or dustmites!
Mar 10, 2025