by Jess Kamin
Bitterly, lying crooked on the bed
I could kill a man by taking his sweet face in my hands and snapping his neck upwards,
I could kill a man while he’s on top of me, out of fear and insecurity,
Or watch him kiss my neck, wonder when the right time is for me to reach my hand down, fumble with the zipper
Now, or maybe now, or maybe…
Lonely on a saturday, lying still on the floor
Exhausting every weekend plan until they’re all faded and bubbling, ripping pathetically from the center outwards.
Dream so intensely there is no escape; in fact, never have a dream again,
Only sleep and its continuation, so murky pink, so unable to make split second decisions,
So worried about the dictionary and all of its contents…
Now. Definitely now.
Thinking in systems: the flu shot enters my bloodstream and spoils me rotten; the trash piles up for days and days until all there is left to do is throw it away; lose your earphones, release your earthly possessions, find them in the bed, rinse, repeat; communicate through noise and distraction, distract yourself with rambling thoughts of continuity and fried rice.
Now, I tape these fleeting things to the wall, first slowly then all at once.
This is all of it.
Future Histories 