a racing mind
can’t excelerate
without a course
to ride on.
the oil spots
leak down
through
your veins
pollute and
inflame
the muscles
with stress.
the cars
must be
put away
sometime.
clear the roads,
wash the
state of them.
sit in
the absence,
and breathe.
The peeping tom
has taken up
running or biking
whatever it is
that requires
two-piece spandex
body suits
and frequenting
my coffee shop
since I moved.
—
when I feel
his eyes on me
staring
as I sit at
my table,
or staring
as I enter
from a walk;
I would rather
take an
orangepeeler
to my skin,
leatherworking
an abaya from
my own flesh
then be
seen.
My brain
wakes up
and cries for
the death of
its living baby.
so used to
hurling
ourselves
[booze]
down the hatch,
the still
afterwake
unscathed
is surreal;
like crying
when happy,
our system
malfunctions.
short-shorted
piggy-bunned
riding that
baby blue bike
through the
grass fronts
of small business
and edges
of town on a
monday day.
—
no one knows
you’re 27.
pedophiles
eye you,
suspiciously,
that you know how
traffic functions.
exertion charred
lungs feel good
after branding,
though
spin class is
actual hell.
endorphins,
you are
not booze
or coffee,
but you
are okay
[for now]
—
suddenly
there is
so much
more to do.
Not addiction
constrained
to certain
locations
everywhere
is a place
to be;
my body,
unhooked
from IV
free to
explore.
—
https://www.laurakkerr.com/2014/03/20/capitalism-traumatic-stress/
—
I saw you
and felt
nothing.
—
if I was
a tunnel,
you used
to be the
train.
whenever
I’d hear
you coming
I’d brace
myself for
impending
arrival.
you’d roll
through me;
unstoppable
force.
i’d feel
every inch
of me
shake and
shudder
as you
ran through
my bones.
—
but you
left
long ago,
now.
and though
you used
to take
My route
regularly
[for quite
some time]
now all
that’s left
is the
distant
whistle
of your
brisk
presence.
I was taught
love
was the
wrong details
of an oil painting.
the image:
a blanket
wrapped around
a stranger
in a desert night,
desperately trying
to keep warm
by a fire.
I was taught
the only way
for anyone
to love me
was for them
to light me
ablaze
stack of
kindling
Destroyed
by lover’s
presence.
I longed for that
feeling.
my heart
prickling
with shards of flame,
smoldering myself
to death
as I fell asleep.
i fantasised
about
the next
oxygen starved
donkey punch
to the chest.
i’ve been
romanticizing
wrong
painted details
so long,
When he
tried to whisper,
“darling,
you are much more
than broken branches,”
i could not
hear him.
I was
deathly high,
flying,
dust in the wind,
reminiscing
my own
tortured ashes.
When all
you’ve known
is the burn
of a
direct flame,
you become
numb
to
warm kindness
of a fleece blanket.
You forget
you are subject,
meant to survive
the arid desert
with a loving touch.
But everyday
your nerves
come
one step closer
to healing themselves
in this love
you’ve found.
Let it
snuggle in
through your veins,
repair
altitude busted
ear drums,
to ensure
survival
another night.
—
