crooked as corkscrews

i.
a cloud of wasps follow me to bed every night and hover over my chest as if I’m worthy of my very own plague. my very own exodus. the buzzing becomes almost comforting until I remember how it feels to get stung when you’re least expecting it.


ii.
every book I pick up is written in latin and there’s no dictionary, no textbook, no google translate. all of the knowledge I could ever desire is here in the tactile sense but nothing more, compressed into declensions that I’ve long since forgotten the rules to. brief moments of clarity followed by closed blinds and a light-switch turned off.


iii.
I’m wandering through a graveyard and every headstone has the name of somebody I love on it. it doesn’t matter that I try to plant flowers every time my knees touch the ground, nothing ever grows here. just the pain. just the regret. just the number of plots with freshly turned soil and gray slabs of concrete. I never see names being written. maybe they write themselves. maybe I write them and forget about it instantly.


iv.
there’s a room with no doors and everybody I’ve ever touched myself to the thought of is trapped in there with me. there’s a stage in this room and I’m standing on it with nothing to say. my underwear doesn’t match and for some reason this matters. only one of the people in front of me has actually seen my naked body but I cross my arms in front of my chest anyways. over the birthmark. over the first place somebody decided to break and leave broken.


v.
I’m drowning in something that looks like water but is probably tears. vodka. gasoline. something that you associate with the word “sad.” but the catch here is that you can never really die, you’re just perpetually kicking your legs and hoping for change. but you’re in hell, sweetheart, don’t you know? your lungs aren’t supposed to be writing you thank-you notes. if you wanted stationary and gratitude you shouldn’t have let yourself fall this far down.


vi.
nobody remembers my name but they remember the poems. they remember the small hands and the pens that spun in circles but my name tastes unfamiliar and bitter on their tongues. like a bruised strawberry, or a stale marshmallow. a bunch of letters that were probably good at some point. no, they had to be good. were they good? were they good to you?


vii.
I’m still waiting for you.
I’m still waiting.
I’m still.

I’ve hoarded
your name in my mouth for months. My throat
is a beehive pitched in the river. Look!
Look how long this love can hold its breath.

My body is a dead language and you pronounce each word perfectly.