this regret machine

  hop and skip and don’t needto look at herto know. what she’s thinking.  orange all over and front facing, front. looking but two ofus and one of him. hungry or confused but either way he is thirstyso. we take a drink. hopping and skipping around the pool we. move quick onground. she bounces and i. hop not allowed to go this far. my mother never goes. anywhere so. neither do i. drink. bathe alittle. he can’t watch both of us. she can’t see me now, but she’s with me. my partner we. find ourselves naturally. in yellow season with orange and fox and cold. the wateris cold but feels. nice. on our feathers.  he makes a move at me. i wing out. too close. she jaws and lunges and peck at hischin. he didnot like that. too close he. bites back and she. moves. swift and quick i am watching her inthe water fly up the tree. the game is. over. she’s found. something. and asks to fly away.  he makes ago again and i. wing. he jaws and i scream. why did shego that far? i thi...

  (content warning for sexual assault, described. Posting uni work. I'm happy with how I've been doing, but I know I can do a lot better ) My friends have no idea where I am. I left them too long ago. I sit on a vinyl floor, my legs half spread, my fishnets caught in my boots. My back is arched against the wall, my abdomen creased forward, my shoulder blades sharp and pressed. I look ugly against the orange wall, underneath the yellow bulb. Something about the bulb burns my skin.The window is ajar, the floor is cold. My eyes are blue ketteled bubbles, boiling off hot confusion.  I watch her crawl towards me from the other side of the room. In our halved height, we are equal. Her legs are longer and shaved. Her voice is northern, and I can’t understand where it’s from. I hear her speak from somewhere else, like it sounds off the walls, like I’m hearing her through my skin. It’s layered and sinking slow, a boiling molasses of noise. It hurts all through me, but I don’t know ...

(alcohol, domestic violence & gun mention ) Hurt, 28 years old and wrapped in Vermont thicks Standing on the edge of a field, where corn moves the wind like a whistle through broken teeth Not enough to stop shaking, While waiting at the bus stop They hold their bag close and root through the essentials Passport, purse, change of clothes Pen and paper for postcards, maybe even apologies The bus comes They ride The miners give them strange looks but pays them no mind They recognise one as a drinking buddy, who seems just as blabbering Sober as drunk They retract into the corner a little further They run off two stops early with a clattering down the aisle because they saw a car up ahead And assumes him knowing They get off the bus and run across the road The only person about at this hour Into suburbia, where they always saw themselves headed The houses all look the same in the unwanted dark All blue and all grey They have no idea where to go The cold becomes unbearable Very, very...

(cw for animal fighting, brief mention of blood) she lies and thinks and hopes to become a puddle of sleep. hopes absolve with panic. sharp, quick panic.      she has never been more awake. the curtains let in too much light -- not moonlight, not streetlight, but some sourceless bright pain. maybe the fireflies unionized, she thinks. her head goes blank. it is tired.      the ceiling has nothing to offer, but a twin-bladed fan. it spins without permission.      of course, the dogs start fighting. it begins as it always does, the younger leaps up and begins to test the older. their shadows slowly rise on the wall she faces. the younger pokes and bites. the older huffs and shifts in his bed. so, the younger barks.      now she sits up, a world across from them. she wasn’t sleeping anyway. why should anyone? the younger rodent slides up and down the wall, hopping on hind legs. the corners of the carpet are scuffed against the sk...

 

So i can say something useful. So i can say something useful.       The words haven’t been here lately. I don’t know where they’ve been. All words are lost in prepositions — where does it belong? When did it come here? When are you going to write that letter? Are you alright? This isn’t self doubt. No, I have moved past the season of self doubt. I think I can write confidently, maybe even fluently. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. There’s nothing worth saying. Repetition is a composite trick of the hand, filling the mould of content with a word count. My brain is cooked. Steamed in dishwater, stinking like unclean dishes. The smell of burnt chemicals dries the nose through. It’s a certain kind of lingering rot that sticks to the interior of my skull. I’ve been washing dishes for three days a week for the last while. The dishwashing machine does the meaningful work. I only clean around the edges,...

Deeper, deeper into this sweet quiet. Sweeter and sweet, and the darker the night gets, the less I feel. There, at four am, thinking about nothing. I am home, and I am safe. There is nobody I need to talk to, nobody will ever need anything of me again. My eyes stay open, my body listens to only itself. While this space is quiet, peace seeps through in different ways. I do not seek peace, not yet. There is nothing to be felt. I keep all ideas and knowings out. It is not a combat. I am just listening to other music. This song sounds so good. This is my jam. This is my song. Forever and ever I will keep listening to this song, as I live through this dream. Home and somewhere else entirely. A physical self sticks to these bedsheets like a toy stuck to a window. This body is filled with liquids and fruits not its own. It peels, shedding empty husks, revealing something quieter beneath. A place of solemn quiet. The window looks to the hollow and cold world. In one moment, I am growing, a...