Doom like a vulture’s cry—a sputtering
flame choking on honest
water; a sea wave that stills mid-air,
crest and trough multiverses apart.
I think I saw it first, brimming in the
pools of your concealed pout.
You can’t fool me: there is stubborn moss
growing within the cracks of your voice,
your eyes bruised and melted,
making me feel like a wayward child
seeing his mother cry for the first time.
This is my last plea to you:
pat down the last few slabs of earth
into my screaming mouth and let
the grass grow from my bones. After all,
what else am I, but something
gnawed and spat out on mosaic floors—
A toothpick on a chocolate sample
(psst! i called this piece tipsy because a) this is a narrative of my first week at school as a senior, which has very much been a blur, and b) each one of these lines were written on different nights, always right before i knock out during the witching hour. i’ve been completely exhausted, forcing myself to stay up. but i tried to use the last moments of consciousness each day, during which my train of thought goes completely ludicrous, as a channel through which i could be most authentic and raw in my writing.)