for my dearest.

“We suffer
the sickness of self,” she would whisper.
“You are my real baby,” she says.

Poor child!
I look into the blue
mirrors of her eyes
and see myself

diminishing, sinking down
to a depth she does not know is there.
Out of breath,
I will not rise again.

I grow into my death.
My life is small
and getting smaller. The world is hers. I will give it to her.

feral child, born only to be used, you dance with your eyes closed

the unspoken suicide pact we’ve always shared is brighter these days

and

You’re still the girl your daddy fucked on the couch, baseball game on a muted tv. You’re still the girl last at bat, bottom of the seventh, and i’m still watching on the sidelines, silent.

73 tracks