A Safe World is Always Emptier

Death burns his black dress in the track field

and walks home from the bus stop with me.

Naked and cold with a dull scythe on his shoulder

while he babbles to me about everything 

that will happen on this day and that day and the other,

but not the day I will pass.

Routine Killings

No one sees blood but me.

I think my pupils are dyed red.

And they are fooling me.

When I see gunshot wounds

in my blueberry pancakes

and scabs on the bottom of my shoes,

I topple over sidewalks,

feeling my insides release like posters succumbing to fallen pins,

caving in on my ribcage.

[There is a bear punching around

the calcium cabin beside my heart.]

When the morning waves are crashing into each other

on the vacant side of the beach

I watch two delicate, skyscrapers of women

claw at pieces of skin they catch on the other

and stab one another in the eyes

until blindness becomes marginal for everyone 

who is not already me

or blind.

And maimed seagulls

and legless jellyfish wash and fling themselves upon and across

a stained shore.

And when I lay in the warm evening grass

as vicious vigilante ants stomp over my honey-drenched fingers

I feel I have started a mini world war three;

their tiny legs become even tinier machine guns,

their even even tinier mouths blow up

the little villages built atop my arm veins.

The flesh I carry 

becomes an impromptu battleground:

my thighs house canons, 

my pelvis ports submarines,

and bullets and sprinkle bodies litter my calves.

I lay there and watch with little whimpers

as bite marks wash over me and teeth grip onto 

the sensitive pressure points on the borders of flesh guarding my pubic bone,

I watch the bloodbath swirl all in the perfect, extinguisher red gory technicolor palettes,

I watch the insect widows weeping

I watch the arachnids saw off their legs with the teeth of dead soldiers

I watch the queen bee get plowed by the tank she ordered

I watch their blackened guts being washed away by garden hoses and muddied by sprinklers.

And the Sun is shining burgundy.

The Greatest Gods Had No Friends

I am no Aphrodite, yet,  

My feet shall rise alone from sea foam.

I shall stir madness by my lonesome

As Dionysus did with no gangs following.

I shall hunt by myself

As Artemis shot arrows in an abandoned forest 

With no one but limping deer to hear her screams echo.

There are no allies in the most beautiful Heavens;

Lucifer fell alone with no other angel to catch him.

He and I learned

Concrete is more stable than a mate.

I pray to myself for blessings.

I write my own testaments. 

I look above my crown of thorns for a miracle. 

I’ve grown eyes on the back of my head

To trail behind me as I continue on in solitude

Knowing my Heavens are overflowing at the brim 

With snake traps and spears.

Southern Girl Sicko

I’m living in Virginia, 

the beginning of the south,

the childstar of the confederacy.

I’m putting worms and swampwater into buckets

and dumping them on the heads of 

northern boys who know mud as well as they know space.

I’ve mowed the king down with my horse,

his legs are morbid and twisted like L-shaped pipes

as he moans in the dark while I hop off the saddle.

My feet are bare and covered in gravel,

my dress is falling off my shoulders,

exposing a breast as I kick the ruler,

nothing but a man when his crown falls down the ravine.

He weeps harder as I remove my 

spear from its sheath.

I step on his chest, 

hundreds of pebbles covered in my dead skin,

scratching him through his shirt.

I hold the spear above my head 

as if I am splitting a log. 

I yell at the man I toppled over,

“Thus always to tyrants.”

Drooping, Wilting

It all ran down my face—

the cuts were vertical and 

the drops of my embarrassed eyes

wetting themselves

hit the pavement heels first.

It stressed me out to not know

what I would become but knowing

I would transform and feel the searing pain

of new roots bursting out of my back,

having new blood that 

came to be by swirling around my brain.

I was a girl turning on my axis

with a disturbance

from my revolution

that rivaled the smooth engineering 

of Earth’s legs.

I was becoming a girl

who would feel ill forever—

the type of girl who 

could only wipe at the throb 

when it wept,

paint it in thick white cream when it 

began to turn red 

until I lost control and

clawed at my burning surface

until I broke the seal.

With the scrape of my bulldozing nails,

I began to feel something eternal.

I Remember Being a Girl

Tender is Heaven’s flickering

mouthwarm light,

glowing unto my back.

Spilling with the shine 

I am splattered everywhere;

an angel weft into wood floors, 

mattress coils, 

and leather.

Gore for Those Who Like to Visualize (The Martyr Version)

My eyes melt onto the frying pan.

Scrambled veins and toasted corneas.

My pupils boil over.

Cooking for my beautiful boyfriend

who reads the newspaper:

“Local Woman Dies in Bathtub.

Now isn’t that sad?”

I flip my eyeballs,

they are crisp on all sides,

“Yes, it is.”

—

Picking at my guts for dinner.

I wanted peas and mashed potatoes.

The red slime sounds like macaroni and cheese.

Pretending food is other food keeps me full.

A picky eater versus

an eater who picks at their food.

I eat to sustain,

if I must bite at your thighs, 

I must.

—

When the frostbite turns skin black

and the exit wound leaks sweet southern molasses,

I awake.

The Bloodshed is Only Digital

I’m spinning,

but only w/ my eyes.

My entire side hits the ground

while my seeing 

is all tossing itself up against the ceiling.

I’m going somewhere all from

right here.

I’ve gone to Guam before homeroom.

I can see the war 

all from my couch

if I just stare at what 

my mom is staring at.

Her fingers rub into my scalp 

like she

is kneading out 

the pure knowledge 

of the bomb.

Walking Sick

We started to lose our young, touchy memories early and slowly

It started with trying to remember how we held hands an hour ago,

Did we tangle our fingers together or put one set of digits over the other like a pile of clothes?

Trying to get that same feeling we can’t prove ever existed while looking into red eyes

There was a tangle of dissolving noodles at the bottom of the cherry pit of our hearts

No matter how much cyanide scientists and friends told us we contained

We continued to bite at each other hoping we'd get the full taste of each other’s fruit just from the skin

You can not mix honey into venom, the sweet will float at the top like a baby in a pool.

We cannot be cuddly cobras, we cannot kiss without nipping each other with our front teeth.

We start every single day looking at each other under the blanket like we want to pick away each other’s sores

Forgetting that we tried to poison each other last night for a reason.

You elected to sleep on the couch,

Then a couple hours later you wandered aimlessly into bed, swinging the door open like you were running from a fire.

Your silk pajamas were clean,

But your chin,

Your chin,

You had massaged your toothbrush bristles into your gums until they bled out of your mouth and onto the skin on your face,

because you were “eager to see me”.

We woke up that same night

Our bed became a pool covered in leaves and lilypads, chlorine got in our eyes

I screamed but you laughed.

Then the next day I asked you to teach me how to swim,

And you laughed again.

We got our towels, I helped you pick out your trunks

We jumped in, I was nervous like it was the first time, holding onto you like you were the last pole that could protect me from getting swept up in the winds.

When you saw me underwater you lunged at me in my most vulnerable state

I woke up and we started biting each other again

We started screaming at each other again

Acting surprised every single time

We forgot how we got to our point B but kept walking to point C like we understood

You forgot our anniversary

I forgot what turned you off

You forgot my birthday

I forgot where you wanted us to meet for dinner

You forgot about the texture of my surface but remembered my pressure points

Like you needed to press on them to survive.

I remembered you were living in a swamp and mosquitos flew around your head everywhere you swam like disciples

You treated me like a menace but thought the bugs were innocent because you forgot about malaria, about the suckling

If our love was a disease, it’d keep returning no matter the amount of radiation and mountain high pill regimens stacked against us

If our love was a disease, a skin searing epidemic would kill half our town because we were too careless to contain our issues

If our love was a disease, I would have died by now

If our love was a disease, the CDC would shove a pike through me and burn my body on a grill

and I would become a plus one for the death toll

If our love was a disease, you would wash your hands with boiling water after cutting pork

even though you are terminally a walking sick.

OVERFILLING MY BASKET WITH GOODIES UNTIL I AM BORN WITHOUT A GENDERED CLUE

The elastic of a waist sticky and

ever flowing like the everlasting

curves of the halved hourglass

of an amber maple syrup bottle

like bart simpson like pinup postcards iced with dust in an attic

teasing patrons on the penguin belly white

metal shelves in aisle 6A of Diake-4-Less Mart:

BAKING NEEDS           CANNED FRUITS/VEGETABLES

GREETING CARDS         SPICES/SUGARS

CLEANING SUPPLIES    PET FOOD

“Have you ever had a fresh-out-the-freezer glass of 

pure, EXTRA VIRGIN orange juice so frothy?

Yet so granular you can feel vaccine-like punctures of each bitty crystal like

colonies of pickled prickled pulp soldiers bobsledding against 

your curved and frost crisped tongue

before they stick a ten point landing atop 

creamed shreds of buttermilk pancake tendons

fuzzing in your digestive lagoon? Like malleable pillars of fat and muscle

Punching through the thick hairs of an olympic pool’s scalp

Like a full rack of sapien ribs spearing unto

 the rusty breasts of an iron maiden?”

Today’s hairdo was inspired by 1998 Lauryn Hill and gargantuan GMO superhero green beans— 

Locs thick with the plum yogurt blood of my heart

and wrapped in tacky gel with the swift turn of my grandmother’s twist

Entrenched with the uninhibited spirit of zami and the 

agitation of my father when I neglect to fry him enough kelewele.

Stomping&Storming through aisles until I am confronted with a

“Ma’am —  do yo uneed help?”

  and a colony of lime green plantains sunbathing in the produce basket I neglected to

acknowledge four walk-arounds before.

Waving a pistol in your face with the unfastened muscle of a red air dancer

Possessing me as I scramble for a vial of olive oil to grant my breasts everlasting life

and you are forced to stretch your

back 

For: me. 

until the pair of dimples embedded between the 

bite size fatty handles of your hips are exposed

below the lettuce hem of your breast and collarbone

clinging(crushing, gripping

 suede top with

the 

trench deep, 

         sweetheart 

neckline drenched in a highlighter hue that

mimics the street lamp-like glow

of the lemonskins

and lettuceheads bobbing together 

in chive green bags knotted tighter at the neck

than a noose around an imprisoned 

and executed 

african pirate’s

neck 

in your mystery machine 

blue 

shopping 

Basket.

Gore for those Who Like to Visualize

I’ve been going on for twelve years;

This won’t take two.

No,

I’ll keep parading on

Throwing candy from my teddy bear float

Won’t make children love me.

It’ll make adults stop and remind me that 

Teddy bears are the sons of Teddy Roosevelt

While their daughters tug on their wrists.

Pandering to those forty year old cardboard boxes

Has never been easier.

—

My eyes melt onto the frying pan

Scrambled veins and toasted corneas

My pupils boil over.

Cooking for my beautiful husband

Who reads the newspaper:

“Local Woman Dies in Bathtub”.

“Now isn’t that sad?”

I flip my eyeballs,

They are crisp on all sides.

“Yes, it is.”

—

Picking at my guts for dinner.

I wanted peas and mashed potatoes.

The red slime sounds like macaroni and cheese.

Pretending food is other food has kept me full.

A picky eater versus…

An eater who picks at their food.

I eat to survive,

If I must bite at your legs, 

I must.

—

Rip out my tongue, Dionysus!

I, the mind;

A minuscule goddess of the graveyard.

Undertakers pray for a plentiful winter harvest

When the frostbite turns skin black

And the gunshot wound leaks sweet southern molasses,

I awake.

Titan of Tears

You are the Titan of Tears,

sobbing to the unforgiving milkman

who breaks your mud crusted bottles

and spits curdled milk into your mouth

from malnourished cattle. 

He crunches around broken glass

with his scuffed leather boots on your front porch

as you watch from a hole in your living room wall,

losing your first piece of dignity,

and the last of the sanity carrying you since age ten.

You are the Titan of Tears,

crying to the cutthroat poetess

who refuses to send your estranged sister

a collection of milk-soaked poetry.

She burns your Janus-lines in front of the mailbox;

stanza by stanza, the ash coats your mouth

like lipstick for the damned,

spiraling into ash as she waltzes away.

The Titan of Tears —

you whimper on peeling porches,

sealing your hurricane-ravaged front door

to block out strangers who walked away months prior.

You, Titan,

who only feels clean while flossing ‘til you bleed out

in the harshest of summer storms

because you believe your great God is washing

sins out of your matted hair and thin teeth.

You, Titan,

whose childhood feels never-ending like evening traffic.

Childhood is the milky smoke

seeping from your dying neighbor’s chimney in the blue morning;

adolescence stares at you

like glassy eyed pigeons outside of your office window

as you sob into your cold black coffee.

Your lacking adulthood is full of sloppy attempts to silence.

Barking dogs in your slush brain,

pushing down the bile that rises in your flaking throat,

as water floods your eyes like a basement during Katrina,

and feeding worms writhe out of your flared nostrils, 

covered in snot and blackened discharge.

You are the Titan of Tears;

your weeping rivals Mother Mary’s bloody tears.

Haze

Asleep in the toddler-ripped, mesh hammock

with a bitten foot atop the gritty stone bird bath

that whirls leaf infested water in slick currents 

as the moon becomes anew above her sweaty head.

A half drunken Coca-Cola bottle rumbles around in the dry grass

as her dry toe creeps down toward a colony of hungry ants

Eyes fluttering with flaming indolence———————

her dehydrated voice croaks an improvised poem that loses meaning

With every breathy sigh that interrupts nonsense lines.

Stepping over the neglected dahlias

With muddy, creased white leather sneakers

Terrorizing tangled weeds

Who rustle together like a flock of shivering birds.

The absent moon blows its essence

As if to cool down a boiling beef stew.

Cracked bottles with his caffeine infused saliva rimming the mouth

lay at the bottom of a pit of blackened trees.

He washes upon the swaying, silent girl

her gentle eyelids twitching 

as his phone tower figure covers the empty, late night sky.

The strands of his dark hair highlight

The burning abyss found in an evening

of a disappearing Summer 

Where hungry mosquitoes find shelter on suburban porch lights

and drunken teenagers climb outside 

Through grimy windows open a quarter way.

He stares at her like a missing lover, 

his eyes -- a false whiff of disgusting naiveté, 

She dreams in increments,

He creates a grainy, black and white motion picture

Where she lay in an infested rat nest of a grave.

His deep, shallow breaths halt the swaying trees,

The slow cicada song dies down

As if a neighbor told them to cut the volume,

and the last streetlights knock out

Like a bloody, toothless boxer in his last round.

She is left alone in her backyard with the grace of Mother Nature and him;

A man lacking a full heart capacity —

the world paused for him.

She now knows the last world she dreamt of

while he reigns upon her

He crooned through a dry cough, 

“I will see you again.”

She dreams through her last breath.

And the cicada choir hums again.

I Figured Out the Word Ego Before God

Dec 19 11:17 p.m.

I am recalibrating...

Fuck off God &

Fuck off education,

I am ripping the ticks off my skin--

I read James Baldwin,

I know how violence operates

& I understand how painful

Being sucked dry is,

Yes,

I thought I would fuck

The world

And swim in a shallow ocean on a beach

Where the “Blue” Four Loko is the saltwater

And the sand is lime green kief &

Stale instant hot chocolate powder—

I am obsessed with poetry,

I started reading & writing again

)I am a toddler in the most mature way possible(

Forgive me for writing with my lefthand,

I will cut it off so my right never 

Forgets what happens 

When a curious doe walks away from its mother.

Everyday is a fucking vacation,

I smoke in bed & log on Zoom,

I am in therapy and on track to 

Earn my flimsy bachelor’s degree

All while eating a subpar bagel

From the shittiest, but most convenient deli. 

I am living like Carrie Bradshaw

Except I cannot afford to even Google 

Who the CEO of Prada is,

but she could not either.

I reject mediocrity,

I used to vomit when my mother

Would feed me the cheap baby food

)I was not digesting that shit(

I am too fresh to not live in luxury

I am the lesbian King Tut

Frothing at the mouth in downtown Manhattan

I raid Greenwich Village every weekend

& The grass at Washington Square

Screams at the sight of my thighs.

I waste my weed everyday 

And blame the plant 

For not being potent enough

)Bitch, you are fucking yourself over:

STOP SMOKING,

SAVE MONEY,

GET MORE HIGH LATER(

It is the same formula

But I fuck it up every time,

Two teaspoons of unfiltered tap water

Makes the mug creamy

But also too bitter

Where is the balance

When the bricks aren’t tied to my back?

)Can someone make sure

That’s right?(

I called myself a 

Lone fuck off of a girl,

I was right,

Except I am no longer 17 and loathing

And I have a tie to Providence, Rhode Island

The same way the Spirit in my apartment

Is chained to the cheap island in my kitchen. 

I reside in —— Village,

It’s not a city within the City

It’s a neighborhood.

A blood splotch next to a dead body,

It’s a puzzle piece 

)Maybe two(

Not the whole solution. 

I have seen the south once

Since I crawled into the City. 

I have seen the south once. 

I remembered boredom as I laid

On a close friend’s bedroom floor,

I remembered vanity as I did my makeup

In front of their dressing mirror

I found beauty next to the dust

And the one-of-a-kind necklaces strewn about the rug,

And the space heater burning my calves

I would not freeze ugly,

My corpse would don $12 false eyelashes

)I really internalized it when I was 10

And heard Alison DiLaurentis say the

Only way to stay the same age forever is to 

Die young. To “leave a beautiful corpse.”(

And full coverage foundation, 

My rotting breasts covered up by

Clearance shelf perfume

And translucent setting powder

That fell into my pocket at the drugstore. 

Beauty is the ideal state of permanence, 

A physical ecstasy reluctant to be removed. 

)I skipped class 500 times 

This semester & probably wore

Makeup oh so many times.

We are in a pandemic,

I had no fucking time.(

I am deteriorating as I turn in this essay

)Pleasegivemeana

Pleasegivemeana

Pleasegivemeana(

And what do I accomplish?

The crushing, liberating reality of being gay. 

“But I thought you liked boys?”

I thought I liked boys too. 

And now I am writing poetry

About them twisting my arm behind

My back--

)I remember in elementary school,

I went to a small sleepover at a 

Close friend’s house. We saw the news

One morning. A woman had been raped. 

I asked the two girls before me

What rape was. One said it was when

A man leaves a mark on a woman’s

Skin forever. No one had another definition.(

Do not fuck me, okay, fine, fuck me. 

I keep having the same nightmare

Over and over again 

And forgetting about it

The next morning.

I cannot fathom the end of

The semester and the cruelty

Of winter,

It snows for hours and then I

Remember the uninterrupted spinning

Of the world. 

My heater barely functions--

I am ripped apart and baked alive

To keep my bedroom warm.

My Existence Depends on Your Cooperation

I have spent the entirety of my life

Studying the feminine gothic

Researching the modest curve of the hips 

Of Victoria’s Secret models as

I walked by their posters--

Black lingerie clung onto the skin

Of a thin, honey-blonde White woman 

While she held a firm gaze 

As the tip of her nose glistened 

And her fingers curled into a “come hither” gesture

A menacing seduction that made 

New husbands and great grandfathers lower their heads

In shame of the spontaneity of their carnal hungers,

The fruits between the meats of their thighs still growing even

As herds of vinegar flies begin to invade

Their leathering gates.

My womanhood guided me like a compass,

It led me to waters unknown by

Creatures who had tread the sea 

Decades before my mother had even 

Rested in the liminal corners of her mother’s recess,

Kicking at the thin walls of her innards to give her

A taste of the most bittersweet parts of creation.

I was designed to keep my heart in line

With those who descended from Sappho’s rib

And spread the word of our creator 

Through the adrenaline rush of our infamous, sensitive desires;

To broadcast delicate, fluffy romance

As a reward from the homoerotic heathens

Who paved the way for our sensual mischief.

When I was eight and buying Valentines to hand out

To my third grade class,

The cashier laid a legend upon my ears— 

She swore to me the gasoline igniting the flame

That kept my heart and liver from freezing over

Could only be sustained eternally 

With the bodily fluid of a divine love.

And years later, my mouth still waters

As I daydream about my fantasy beverage:

The spiced ichor of Eros sliding down my tongue,

My heart marinating in the broth that seeped from

A laceration carved across the thickness of his throat

By the stealth of a razor that lined his own arrowhead.

KANEKO FUMIKO…SHE BREATHES JUST LIKE ME

I am too delicious like the rotting apple right beside me

I bleed onto my bedside table to prove to the enslaved farmers before me

That there is not one road to consumption

I exist cramped in a tiny bedroom with a towering man

Sleeping with no boxers to the left of me

I listen to his fraudulent heartbeat echo inside his hollow body

As his hairy legs swipe against mine like windshield wipers.

And he complains in his sleep…

He does not love me,

He says I am too vulgar.

He swears my blemished mind should be smudged out with a wet thumb

Like a bare breasted woman on the television,

I should be horrified of liberation,

And quiet hopes for a life more relaxing than a massage

In a five star resort on a stolen island…

Leaving him takes keys and a love for urban noise

Limping barefoot

(naked, scratched thighs bleeding, side of the road)

I cannot forever lay matted together with a body

That only loves on me when I am spitting

…

I rethink the mirrors that duplicate my distorted self:

A lone, fuckoff of a girl

Bite-sized and unbelievable like the harvest moon

In the hands of a softened deity.

I am Ms. No-love-reject-emotion

I wear chunky legs and dissatisfaction at the tip of my tongue

Like my mother, Mrs. No-love-reject-emotion

Brain sore from having my past beat on

With police bats

Like the door of a narcotics kingpin,

Backed into a wolf spider infested corner.

My frame is slathered in oily finger grease

And tiny scratches provided by

Petite silver needles and prickly nails

I view the doomed universe alone

Like a widow on her sorrowful walk

To a Tuesday afternoon funeral

Slow feet, intestine pink, teary eyes as she begs

To jump down the plot with him

…

I yell through my boiling tears like an enraged God

As I see my body sliced open on national/ist news

Not mortified by my pinky-red guts

Covering the streetside like beaded necklaces after Mardi Gras

But saddened that they never cared to fill me up

With yesterday morning’s newspaper

I am left like a pitbull that donned fury eyes one night…

I am left like an illegitimate newborn daughter on a doorstep…

But no body treats me better

no body.

…

I become unhinged

“Insane, anarchist woman with a fatal mission”

I question why I should live life peacefully

While a fascist holds a gun in my back.

While the CEO in front of me

Tries to shove grimy pennies up my nose.

I am “relentless” like a wildfire

Creeping up on lavish mansions in W. Hollywood

I am “violent” like a beauty pageant dressing room

I am “unsavory” like a young girl spitting up her undercooked chicken fingers.

…

No proper home built for

Les Femmes Violentes

Only prisons where we fight for sanitation

And the right to eat half a stale sandwich once a day

I am chained to a passive ghost

Under a leaky, molding ceiling in a drafty box cell

Bigger than my vulgar little self

Stolen from my human form ...

And the doll head I once preached under.

The former self:

A well kept young woman to fetishize,

A full, soft red pout

A narrow waist that does not make men puke,

A head with no thoughts on the oppressed who burn,

A fluttery heart that controls my taste

For grimy lovers.

My ashy foot in rusty, iron chains,

I hold my ground

With not much room to stand

I stretch my neck:

I spit in the face of guards,

The colonized God,

The faux fair emperor.

0DE 2 02 (A Mirrored Self Portrait)

0DE 2 02 (A Mirrored Self Portrait)

By Celia Rose

I.

Crave the caress/Not the caresser

Intimacy is an object/Like life

Or homicide/Like a stomach virus

& Cyanide/& depression

Want tap/& tousle

Want skin/& skim

Want soul/& slim

Not only firm like tofu/But soft like cement

And thinner than/A transparent tortilla

Oh you always want more/& much

You build temple fever/Like you build your splintered

KLIMPEN desk from the/depths of the AS-IS section of IKEA

With the split instruction pamphlet/Upside down

And your skull/Twisted behind your arms

Squid ink licorice flesh/Twirling like

Soiled toilet water down/The choking drain

Down the pipes/Flowing into the sewer creek

And atop the head/Of a cottonmouthed

Rat with matted/Fur.

Celia no longer flushes/Her floss down the drain

As she worries she will strangle/A starving rodent.

Celia no longer begs/to be cuddled by jesters

& Beetles/Celia no longer lies about her

Birthday unless she is running/From the

Grasp of the Grim Reaper’s/Knuckles

“No sir, I am not/Old enough to die yet.

I was born in ‘04/Not ‘02,

God wrote my date in/Wrong.

He was in a/Rush the day

My mama popped me/Out her belly

Like I was puss/Or a biscuit out the oven.”

II.

}Caelia requests

Our Lord Dionysus.

Caelia wants

thick, tender curls creeping

Between the webs of her fingers.

Caelia needs

The 12th Olympian’s Heart

Beating between her

Thighs.{

O Caelia,

You once lusted after

The Prince of Denmark

Caelia

=

The Newborn King Claudius

Praying for his mercy

Like a child screeching

Through their scorching, invisible

Tears in the midst of a fit

At the cash register as they begged

To dye their saliva a bright, thick blue

With the

as you bathed in the brook

While

O/Phaelia

Boiled in the stew of

Splintered wood,

Willow branches like

Brown, shredded cheese

Miniature, leaping frogs

With a slick skin reminiscent of

Virgin olive oil—

III.

Oh Celia!!

Do you remember

When we stuck up

That 7-11 the night before

Thxgiving? LMFAOOOO.

The look on that guys face

He was like:

:0!

Pricele.ss

Priceless*

When you pulled out that

.38 for all the money

In the register &

We only made

$1278.97?

So fcking irritating.

We legit did all that

FOR FUCKING NOTHING!!!

WE CSNT EVEN PAY

A THRID OF OUR

RENT WITH THAT!!!!

>ik it’s so annoying

Lol. i can’t believe we

Didn’t get caught.

But at least we got it<

What did you buy w

your half of the $ ??

>what the fuck do u think

I bought bitch?!<

>She sends me a picture

Of her holding multiple

Bags with different brand names

Scribbled all over the

Varied, crumpled wrappings

Of the plastic and paper protecting

Whatever bullshit was underneath.

She was smiling wide

Her pearl teeth illuminated

Under, her soft, balmy

Pink and brown lips

Spreading their thick walls.<

BS!!! Clearly.

Just kidding.

How much did you spend

>most of it. anything

else not pictured

was ingested and

shat out or

sitting in a drawer.

;)<