fuck it, probablyMonday June 17th //
i am watching the children
speak to god with their
there is no icing on the cake.
grandmothers on rocking chairs
can’t keep caring. sugar,
we’re all going to die.
lace your shoes and tighten
your tie, because today in school
we learn the lesson of
what society says is an acceptable life.
be scared of sex. be scared of gender.
worship a leader, kill
for your country. kill for a dotted line.
kill for money, oil, for your government.
be terrified of equality, be wary of your body.
confine love to only your marriage.
suspect everyone. pay all your fucking taxes.
throw out your food. world hunger is
beyond our reach. climate change
is unavoidable. keep consuming mass
amounts of everything mass produced.
i’m going to fuck you, sideways.
i am going to hate myself
even harder than you do.
so, tell me that there is
not a hope left
in this world,
and as i shed a tear
you can catch it with your
they say that chivalry is dead,
but i dreamt of him last night.
he held me in his arms and
i gave in to his fight.
we kissed hard and strong
the way that an ice cube stings skin.
piercing me, pressing me:
please, define ‘sin’.
his dark hair was the night sky
holding me down hard,
if this bed was a prison then this
man was my prison guard.
in between intense glares i recognized
that i couldn’t find his name;
but somehow i knew the taste
of the unfamiliar yet still the same.
what hurt no longer did,
so this means ‘burning desire’:
he stared me down and laughed and said
with our bare hands we will play with fire.
when i awoke i wondered
who the man resembled so;
why would i dream of someone
that i do not really know?
friday evening and
you’ve written all over me
like the way that kids in
over crowded high school classes
scribble profanities in their
on my limbs, blue pen:
i loved her. i fucked her.
she’s such a slut. a heart
with no name. what happens
when we die? phone numbers
of hopeful lovers, scratched
out and rearranged by
and then there is you. graffiti’ed
in the inked garbage of all
the girls you’ve ever slept with.
‘your mom’ jokes and hot teachers
lists. inaccurate drawings of male
genitalia and a cartoon of women’s
breasts in the shape of a heart.
if i turn your page,
you become blank.
using pencil, i’ll write out on you lightly:
“you don’t have to be
what those before you
it’s up to you
if you’ll erase it.
bombs are going off
and still we will ask, ‘do i
look hot in this dress ?’