Thursday, October 27, 2016


i do not know what i want to do next. i do not want to plan for this
with constructs to homogenize myself with.
the bubble, as is, is okay.
i have been in bed for thirty years. my bedroom is frilly
my dolls, dusty. it smells like old lady. this is the room
in which i'd been concieved, and born and raised in.
i masturbate without stopping.
my fingers have erased my sex. my sex would've erased itself.
my fingers are not good at this, which is irrelevant. my mind is not good at this. it is good at
getting away with doing what it does not want to do, feeling
compelled to.
my mind is stubborn and unamused
by sex with the valiant, the troubador
for whom my bedroom door stays open,
creaking with the wind.
the dragon is here, rolling her eyes, telling me
my endeavor is fruitless, and my ovaries

have turned off.
there will never be children.
i will never turn bitter

over pets that did not fit my molds i'd set for them.
the dragon is here, joining her spine to mine.
it goes to sleep immediately upon dumping
her convulsions in my empty space. the empty space
i want to be fearless in the face of.
i put it behind me and get up
rejecting tradition that seems inexcusable.

i will never be young again. from now on, i will be stubborn.
i will be optimistic about that today, mourning
over the coffee pot, over the corn flakes. the floss. the broken hair dryer. the missed opportunities i see in things.
the optimism i will grow from.
i will tell everyone i know my gospel makes sense, relentlessly,
until it makes sense to me.

it is time to wake up. it is time
to be optimistic.
it is time to go back to bed
to later shrug off dreams.