I am sitting in a whirlwind,
of woeful, wistful voices,
veering closer,
as I sit with my smug smile,
and my cheap notebooks,
full of cheap cracks,
about everyone I perceive to have punished me.
I close my windows,
just to make sure I’m alone,
waking up when both the sun and moon are sleeping,
so the city is my own,
and I do not have to share.
Line to line,
I get by fine,
prosey,
pretentious Princess,
fucking my feelings,
and my finest work,
every night,
because they satisfy me,
in a way no man or woman ever could.
Screaming silently,
drowning in my own divine decadence,
dreaming in Spanglish,
slow motion declarations of devotion,
from a carousel of cancelled affections.
RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
In The Garden Of The Free Children
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Sad Girl’s Love Song
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