palisades parkway

i cry in the car 
because i have nowhere else 

to do it.
i only saw her for a second.
but she would die (probably has died) right there

on the side of the parkway. 
the deer had lifted its head,

eyes widepanicked

as she tried to stand 

with broken legs bent beneath 

and hips twisted backwards.

 

she must’ve been hemorrhaging inside. 

blood pooling and swirling around a broken spine and femurs and ribs.

blunt force trauma right? 

but still she was pushing hard, 

struggling to get up
and i drove right past.

i drove right past 

and so
i scream in the car 

because i have nowhere else 

to do it. 
i only saw her for a second. 

please don’t forget

i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying im trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying i’m trying im trying i’m trying i’m trying im trying i’m trying i’m trying 

Chelsea

Sprouted wheat, none of the yogurt she wants but peach that has its own little charm

White sheets, dark towels, an accidental red spot, orange flowers even Muffie would approve of they look perfect and fit perfectly

Brownies with walnuts with friends, paragraphs on the couch – toes touching

Coffee cups, popcorn fingers, finger pricks, fingers mouths and the taste of you

Turning a house into a home. A home she told me to get out of once, good thing I kept coming back

I never would have tried yogurt on pancakes.

Dirty Laundry

I desperately want to trust you.

You started in my brain as a white sheet, wafts of laundry detergent and still warm from the dryer. Maybe you’ve got a stray sock hidden in one of your corners. And back then, the sock seemed so funny, and god, how we’d laugh about it.

How’d it even get there, silly girl?

Then that damn sock grew and folded into a lacy thong – someone else’s, yes I know it’s not mine, don’t take me for a fool. My tongue dries up, hangs heavy in my jaw. I turn the thong over and over and over and over in my hands, trying to find an angle, any angle, at which it still looks like what is was, the sock, it still needs to be the sock.

But the sheet has already been soiled by someone else’s pleasure, the hands that console me covered in the same.

Understand me when I say that we can’t turn the clock back, the sock back.

Fix this before I need to because I can’t.

Please save us from ourselves.