streets

lavanderia

dusty séances on the

bedroom floor

crayons and candles

let me

ride on the back

I’m so cold I’m so warm

I’m

reaching expert level self-sabotage

I was happy, happy

with my fingers like tendrils of

summer vegetables wrapping around

your sternum popping at the core

of all the stairwells I remember

yours

had the most stray letters

on the windowsill and

the door was marked with a name

long departed

the day was

breaking, breaking

gray and orange while I lay

still and felt nothing

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teengirl fantasea

this

is the season for dripping fruit from open eyes.

stale sweat mixed with the fresh stuff

in a cyclone of ripe summer

makes me think of

slicing up your calves and eating them

for the iron.

we were

tripping with multicolored birds

inside!

cannot for my life remember what we did with our bikes.

boiler room streaming

cutting

watermelon trying

to keep the party going but

no one wants to do poppers right now.

kill your lover so you’ll always have their ghost

gaping spaces bleached with sun

and ice in paper cups

drizzled with fake fruit

far too sweet.

you were my companion,

but the theater was closed.

four hundred and fifty stairs to the top,

to nothing

but empty rooms

waiting to be filled with sighs.

river plants hanging low

tried to stop the boat,

and if we weren’t careful

the sky would swallow us whole.

lines burned into my back

made my eyes heavy,

made me want to sleep in dark

air conditioned bedrooms

where we could build secret worlds

and live there alone together.