i can’t tell you what the land looks like. it looks like the sky. the clouds like snow and the cows are the low bodies of night. the trees kind of bellow static. a single tree. a silver rock glimmers from an imaginary light. a child says, “you are all on fire.” the front desk rings. we have complaints. “you have the wrong room,” i say. then, “i’m sorry.” we’ve set the whole place on fire. we’ve spoiled everything. i thought i could be the girl in the desert but now i don’t know who i am. with this love and the fire and all of it
i was set to give you my horns, but maybe i’ll get a jeep instead. then i’ll wipe myself powerfully with a mountain. then i’ll take on armies. then i’ll stand solitary at the peak of the mountain thanks to four wheel drive. then i’ll finally move to california. then i’ll finally buy the right clothes and finally eat the right amount of avocados. then i’ll forget who i am. then you will stay behind. then we will grow apart. like a dog growing into a fence. then we won’t care. then the temperature will drop. then we won’t care. then we’ll stop caring. then one of us will die. probably you. then a little bit after, me
i love a sky burial, but the dirt seems better for something that is loved so intensely. there was a full brass band under a green tarp. let's pretend i have eyes. and the air full of green reflections. if you've ever been swimming when the rain comes and the rain is ricocheting back into your face from the water while you’re in the water, you will get it. the epitaph will say "i'm sorry" so i can be sorry forever. like ophelia’s so beautiful in death. fuck the stars. they have already left me. after the first day and every night after i will sleep alone
there’s something spooky in the trash cans and it’s me: i’m as evil as a forest. i can only help one person at a time. like a drowning or an exorcism. i don’t think your demons are right for my demons. please try to be patient while i try to grow up. today i’m too young and you are too serious. i’m not trying to be dramatic but it’s nighttime. you say you’re afraid of the dark and i’m crying down a flight of stairs. a flock of staircase. let me into your dream. i ask the poet why she lies and she says she never does |