Tag: anxiety

moon slip–poem

how silly my moon slip
into down     my lips
pocus wrap in yours
and I’m sorry about
celestial ache and howl
and how are you
getting down from here?
will you climb cloud
humid spilling? crawl?
beg the ailing air
to backbend into ladder
place your foot in the
spinal gnocchi rung
stumble out of this skin


life is crazy. my apologies for the sabbatical. 

dream (poem)

all liquored up in bed and I am threaded into skin
and my sour sweat is sweet on chapped lips

and I dream in infants, their soft skin and endless chub
dangling limbs and gaping mouths

my mouth agape alone in a bed filled with body
filled with body and my skin dews as afternoon

rises, noon rises before ready and I am liquored
threaded in sour sweat

dreaming in infant skin and dangling limbs
and I can’t wipe the sweat from my skin

can’t wipe the skin from my skin
and it’s too hot here, too humid

and I dream in infants
but I don’t dream.

to wait (poem)

how silly of me to read your skin
pressing, your pressing as subcutaneous.

deep is relative. i know. and my reason
dizzies drunk on nonsense

on fancy on romance. on nonsense.
&i knew better than my excited

utterance, braided in borrowed sheets
in childhood bedrooms and now

i wait. like spoiling food, waiting
for teeth to sink and my nectar

to spill over lips, to be lapped up
to be savored, to be loved.

poison in the form of skin


oh sweet pea my lips
are fat with your poison
fat with your skin
pressed     the pressing
of skin is a precious
thing and so are your
soiled words hushed
against my neck   against
my neck   I use my breasts
to brace   for efficiency
they hold more than milk
you leak nightshade
all over my sheets   all
over my skin   the muscle
of your hands    the bend
of my muscle under your
hands    fingertips like
oleander petals and I
am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon
silhouette on my thighs
on my thighs   on this
skin love like luck
could be a myth   and me
a drowning siren

I’m Not Afraid of Heights–poem


I don’t trust
myself on those
all stilted
and looming.
I’m always eyes
on the edge,
counting pores
in concrete.
How cold
is that water
is that air
kissing this
skin with burn
and brackish.
Dizzying, always
thinking about
driving off.
Would those
pores hold?
or snap
from their
hollowed gut.


Of Course

If I cut open this skin
saline and whiskey
would spill
from the spread
of the wound

maybe some
earl grey
the pulp of my lungs

and I’d be
a mess of words
all consonants
and muddled vowels
all why
and how
come come come

come to bed
and warm my blood
everything is
so cold here

of course I’m

Balcony Tantrums

I’m taking this tantrum
to the street
parade these flaming wrists
like drunken prophecies
drunken prophecies
why aren’t these
the goddamn gospel
why aren’t these
the rash of unwilling luck
I roll in the rain
of sleepless
sleepless what
balconies that aren’t mine
red. the color of lips
my tongue    his skin
when I’m done with it
     the fall from here
     wouldn’t hurt too bad
I’d fly like blackbirds

Sestinas Make Me Nervous

If I grant anxiety a color, it won’t be blue—
My leaden unease mingles
with the smirks of unsure gods
laced in the thread of milk clouds at night,
Grey. Half-moon fingernails can
carve out my nerves, but can’t unsee what I’ve seen

blister apart in my sleep. &My dreaming teeth grind pagan scenes
on the inside of my cheek—veins traveling blue
listless circles, nervous drunks can’t
swallow the twitch that mingles
with itching skin. Sober nights
breeding a fiending god.

Anxiety is nothing but a gaud,
trinket of disquiet—pallid scene
aching over nights
horizontal pacing twisted sheets, the cornflower blue
of my blood shot eyes—motes mingle
with the crust of feigned sleep. &I sleep when I can

but I rarely can
as my ribs roped and bloated by a mocking god
strain to mingle
in between hand-me-down sheets laced with the scene
of secret nicotine, the stench of Camel Blue.
I’ve tried to end this wrenching night

by burying a grave of down feathers—suffocate the night
that can
not drown me in the ink of sleep, my nerves aren’t blue
but instead that dead cloud pavement, made of asphalt god
a serenade of my ache my adult angst my scene
of fractured ease. This ticking of my blood mingles

city streets &choking alleys, a coarse coursing of dreams mingle
between my window screen and paned glass. Tonight
I breathe in that seam, swallow the shards from a can
of cheap beer and whisper my elegy to an unworried god
plastered from lead crystal decanters filled with something blue.

My weeping anxious wounds aren’t blue, their fever mingles
with restless gods that make a mockery of nights
&they can’t sleep either after threading these scenes out of needled nerves.



My first attempt at a sestina. That’s some difficult shit right there. &This is my fifth poem at anxiety this semester… woops.

I Will

Scars mark my skin all over like waves of August heat… from scraped knees to razors dragged into the meat; teeth sallow from the nicotine, heart wary from the ache of latent hate. I lean with the creak of floor boards, pliable to the derecho winds that rip roofs from homes and ease from wills. I ache with the constant tick that reminds me and plagues me of mistakes decades old.

I want to be that girl that blooms in the barroom smoke with crystal eyes with will of fervor shining like pearlescent wings of some detested pest that thrives in separate airs.

but I am neither. I am on fire–letting my skin be licked by flames, letting my skin melt and peel like petals. My lips are velvet, rubbed over by decay–crushed scarlet from the flush of someone else but dried up. Wasted.

I’ll paint myself with the colors of someone famous and strong. I’ll sidle their spine through my flesh and stand tall with their strength. I will prop my arms strong with the proposition that I’m all I need. I can force feed myself disappointment. I need no men to help me with that.