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Memoirs of a Helium Balloon

sweet, sweet vengeance

2.5.2017

One brittle Sunday morning,
Cracked open like the door by
Frigid wind, a steaming mug
Of cocoa warms my fragile

Hands. An insect, feathery
And thin, alights upon the
Chipped edge of my mug, awed by
The contents within, and makes

Its way inside. No longer
Steaming but flaming, my drink
Blisters my worn hands, falls, and
With a shatter, births a land

Fit for crippled, wind-torn wings.

2.4.2017

I am borderline
Straddling the border between persistence and nonexistence
Straddling your hips with a kiss at your insistence
My lips spill cacophonous “yesses” but I do not want this.

I sip anger like fine wine
Trying desperately to break my own spine
We’re alive and outside the lines on the page
Red-scribbled rage
Be cordial at the mic
Get angry backstage

I am borderline
Dying for forehead kisses
This is why we’re nonexistent
Instant bliss spirals to loneliness –

I’m stuck
Out of luck
While we’re fucking
I’m sucking the life out of me
See, it just never came up

2.3.2017

I wear jeans on Saturday afternoons;
Going to bed at 9 is for little kids.
You tie me up in your pajama strings,
Drag me to weeks of nonsleeping
Skinny jeans take too long to pull off at the end of the day
But are much preferable to the rapid exit of your fingernails.
My skin is your chalkboard and you like the sound of it tearing.
You promised me doves and delivered.
They sacrificed breadcrumbs in favor of my small intestine
Just as you were so inclined to exorcise the hell inside me
I won’t soon forget the way my eyelids looked inside your pretty pink box.

2.2.2017

Spring has chased me far
Underneath – growing unseen
Seen ungrowing – backwardly
A flower – A tower
Pink petallike protrusions
Sink simply to shorten a stem
Swing Springly across my
Bathroom – soil soaks me
As it should water – never
Potted – ungerminating
Seedling – forever

2.1.2017

Author’s Note: I am not good at consistency but bear with me

Oh, Omnipotent Spring,
You, with endless raindance thirst (and must pocket the sun before the clouds feel safe enough)
You, with insects buzzing through my coolly widened window; the insomnia dissects, makes a nest out of their still-struggling spindles, and spends the night as if invited
You, chasing holdinghands with religious jealousy as if it were something I seek
You, with detached fingers pressing me far too close to eggcooking pavementlines,
How I despise thee.

1.31.2017

Unfinished Note on the Hotel Nightstand (for the person with whom I slept last night)

It’s easy to forget,
Before the act,
When fingers are tongues
And skin bleeds out of belts and buttons,
That the finishing gesture,
That final, physical exodus,
Is not the product of fluttering heartbeats.

1.30.2017

An Empty Apology for Being

Let me offer you an empty apology for Being.
I did not mean to spoil your coffee with my yawning presence.
I am sorry for carrying the weight of myself on own shoulders,
For treating myself as though I am allowed to take up space.
I am sorry I am too long and wide for you to grab hold of and make small.
God knows you have tried.
I did not mean to imaginary shoot you with an imaginary gun, or so you thought, because I walked past you, unblinking, uncaring.
I did not mean to follow myself out of the abyss because now I know how to fall in love with someone who isn’t hell-bent on cutting me into pieces.
Let me offer you this empty apology for Being becuase
I am not sorry.

1.29.2017

Impure Thoughts

You make me think impure thoughts
Oh yes thoughts
Wandering fingers thoughts
Cut your nails, she whispers coyly thoughts
Wrap your hands thickly around my hips thoughts
Throw me on the floor of Olin and fuck me now thoughts
Maybe I shouldn’t think this is the same room as my mother thoughts
Crush me underneath you
Off-white fissures cracking as tremors tear me through
Pelvic-bone thrusting bruises
Thoughts
Drink me like a river with no dam
You, with endless thirst thoughts
Wet, sticky thoughts so grotesque
Semen pouring out my ears thoughts
Tear off my skin, fill me up, dirty talk thoughts
So impure they leave stains on my neurons

1.28.2017

It only took a smile.

He likes his coffee black,
Or maybe he just got used to it that way.
She doesn’t really drink coffee;
It’s a tea kind of day, anyway,
His car is snowed in,
And he orders his third tall paper cup of Earl Grey.

They’ve seen each other around the place.
He knows she usually sits at the bar
With a notebook and pen.
She knows he usually sits in the back, by the window,
Reading something,
Always something.
She never got close enough to read the title.

She peers up from her frantic scribbles,
The molten figures never sit still, anyway.
At the same moment,
He dog-ears his page,
Tucks the book underneath his arm,
Sips his Earl Grey.
Their eyes meet.

It only took a smile.

Turning back to the hieroglyphs, the cave markings,
Her own language unreadable to her,
She hopes, one day,
She will find a translator.
She hears the creak of a stool turning,
That she can understand.

He asks, “What’s your name?”

She looks at the notebook.
She has no translator.
“Maybe we’re meant to forget these things.”

He smiles, but she does not see.
“I remember,” he says.

“You…”

“…are your translator.”

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