family life

when i was ten
i learned about “family life”
aka puberty & reproduction, and thought,
not me
i wish to not do that

*i still thought then that marriage meant
big bearded god in the sky just dropped fetus into wedded belly
which made me fearful of marriage
and god
in that, now/me & then/me align

when i was twelve
i wore my nike hat
every day as a way to ward off
the breaking of the dam inside
what i think i knew was not a belly overseen by god
but still an organ outside my control

when i was fourteen and it was summer
and i was finally happy
wearing limited too halter tops
almost-proud aching chestbumps shrouded in polyester
the dam broke

shame )in(conspicuously buried in wads of trashcan toilet paper
buried in the depths of my self-governing, seceded non-belly
buried in an unmarked grave
that i vowed never to visit

falling asleep to all of us strangers

paul mescal asks “are you often single?”
if i were to answer i’d explain that yes, but⁠—

women always grasp for points of connection
and men don’t ask any questions.
women always assume the drain clog is their fault
while men trim beards without abandon over bathroom sinks and⁠—

i own two full-price full-size perfumes
one is called book and is for me
one is floral and is for others
but that’s only because when someone is in my home, i say which one smells better?
and it’s always well this one smells like. you.

and, i like this one, it’s so nice

never
this one smells like cucumbers musk sex butter oceansalt sweat poetry⁠—

i cry when i walk down a street into whiffs of weed smoke and men’s body odor
the man in front of me is in perfect step with me and beyoncé
relieved and lonely when he turns our
rhythm could never have been

love & safety/restaurant poem

what’s the best way out of a breakup?

well, one solution just might be
a part-time job at a restaurant where
no one is older than you and
everyone cares a lot about their job but also
about just kind of surviving & being honest
about how life is shit a lot of the time

and yet the nights you spend talking about just that
together at work or after or outside of it
(when you’ve broken through the wall of just coworker)
kind of prove you all wrong?

and you realize that you’re personally a little bit
in love with everyone there, and even
with yourself more, in their presence
at least collectively and in a purer way than
you were with the catalyst for your seeking out of this place⁠—

where an endless sea of glassware to be polished
could make you easily and gladly forget him
and even read your breakup poem out loud
three sheets to the wind in your ripped tights
projecting from the front corner by window 3
on the happiest of new year’s eves that you can remember

helen of wawa

look at her there, striding through
the doors held open wildly, as open as openly possible
by the men⁠—all of the men, her morning minions
grateful just to bask in her coffee presence

and when she feels the heavy weight
and shame of a door labeled “push”
when she’s been pulling all along
she must remember: she’s helen!

the face that launched a thousand weekday doors
that will launch a thousand more and more