I woke up in the middle of the night, imagining being the subject of someone’s poetry.
About how I used to own America—
Some letters, some artworks, a swing in Bexley,
and a North Star I kept in a takeaway container.
I would have survived all the sinners, but there was too much time to dance.
If I close my eyes, does it mean I’ll wake up in the 00s?
Someone at the pool has a speaker system.
There was a man who taught me how to survive.
His house burned down.
I thought about how it’s pitch black inside the human body.
The brain shuts off before it starts to think.
Being in a body is political now.
I’ve stopped explaining my softness.
Being in your body.
Integrating your parts.
Allowing yourself to take up space.
Maybe I deserve more cheesecake just for existing.
If it takes 4 hours to start and 5 minutes to finish, that's executive dysfunction.
At some point, something has to work out.
Is the trick just learning how to lose beautifully?
The milk goes bad faster when I’m not doing well.
Yesterday it formed a low-res photo of my ex.
Have you ever thought so hard that your hair collects in the shower?
It’s feeling apocalyptic around here,
and I’m not going to war again.
Someone who once felt mythic is now sifting through the debris of soft resistance.
Artists used to love me.
Now I just want to know that my dream isn’t dead.