i think it’s futile, rest. the biggest relief, the most selfish of indulgences. my mind creates little titles and definitions for sleeping and i find it’s tattooed on me, my lack of ecstasy.

lover

the curtains are drawn but the window is still ajar

lets the moonlight (milk-white) drip in

Achilles was dipped in the River Styx /

but the Ringleader was draped in Heaven’s light /

bathed in it, glowing. Six at night

i. the invitation

An invitation to a dinner party

Eggshell paper, finely cut

I call myself a poet. What that means is ambiguous. I have dreams. Horrible, bloody ones where

There is nothing I am less sure of

than if I am a girl

I am shouldering a pervert

I am sick of mediocrity / and of the blood that slips down my legs /

and out of my lips