Archive for July, 2012

feed on the foolish


having drawn a circle

He was admitted five days after his girlfriend found him crouched on the bathroom floor, blood-rusted spoon in his hand and two moist holes where his eyes used to be. Three days before the incident, they’d shared a bottle of wine on a rooftop, the sky above them cluttered with clouds. He pointed out constellations anyway, scratching their formations on her arm, drawing blood and mythic stories with a pin until she couldn’t hold the gasps in.

She can’t stop staring at her arms now, can’t stop trying to recall those stories and whatever hidden messages they might have contained. His mother calls every day, leaves increasingly incoherent and blame-riddled recordings on the machine and she can hear his father weeping in the background, begging the girl to tell them why. They blame her, sometimes– she can hear the hoarse whispers that come through in the middle of the night. Condemnations that she doesn’t need anyone to give her because she’s thought of them already. There’s a scar on her thigh for every one.

She tries not to think about him in that bathroom but she wakes up sometimes, the echo of his anguished tones in her ear. I used to think I needed these, I really did. Don’t you understand? Why do we even need these anymore when everyone walks around like they’re blind? I know you’re there. I can smell your cigarette. You can’t say I’m wrong. You know it. You know it and you act just like the rest of them. you know it you know it you know it you know it you know it–

for Pussy Riot and every other hooligan

They let it happen, they see now. Watched themselves fall in line with expectation and pattern from wallflower to seductress to schoolgirl to trophy wife to cougar to shy girl to nerd girl to victim to victim to victim until the riots happened. It began in Russia with mothers praying and dancing and singing in the streets, women donning masks and kicking fiercely, kicking out like they were kicking themselves for spending time letting someone else write their roles. It followed in country after country as women quit. Quit everything. Quit like the quitters who have had enough, who won’t settle for a clothing spree or an afternoon with the girls arguing over who happens to be Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Somewhere, the world turned its back and girls became women with fire and age in their eyes and fists they knew how to use.

The world wasn’t sure what to do with these women who didn’t follow the cosmo rules or subscribe to suitable distractions that begin with femin- or weep in their rooms or take refuge in anger. The world saw women who would only settle for everything, and the world was scared.

you’ve never been this still before

That’s what I think when I wake up every morning–


Boo, motherfuckers. Boo.

shortest distance

it reaches down into the deepest part of his person