poetry snack

in a spare room, on a spare day

spare life, sparing no detail of this stained


window. broke in lusty balled fists

while i ask myself why it is i do this…

self pity drifter

cries at the spilled memory of moms cooking-

end of reel, cut the tape

wrap it up, take it away.

i don’t even like getting fucked

like i used to

I’m used to being used

but now

it stings a little


from the raw scars you left me on

the crescent dip of my left leg.

fetal position


you left me amidst the hungry ghost drifts,

piling up from neglect,

like dust bunnies with silent eyes

who watch as you decay.

no one will let me curl up in their arms

(without a token of payment)

no one will touch my hair while i cry

unless I touch them in ways that

burn the skin off.

the roof of my mouth

too hot coffee, acrid sizzle

another month bleeding,

scarlet thighs inherited debt

(it hurts to walk)

it hurts to feel i close you out theres no way in—

open the door a sliver


i can push a note through. character scrawl


just dissolve

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