Plastic daisies in her hair
organic ocean leaves, stems
curling up into the pitchy wind
like wilting cursive. chrysalis
pigtails, woven gold.
soft peach legs. nailbeds glowing
like moons, cratered like red pollen
seedling. fingers small, careful
like snow, balancing marbles
and paperdolls, biting sticks of sugar
until her mouth turns puffy pink.
skirt that floats against white thighs.
socks rumpled, one at the knee
one slipping, down, kissing the ankle. shoes unlaced, one poking off her heel.
Spending the night in the ER/hospital…how does one go about getting their hands on a grilled cheese in the ER/hospital..
that itch, the one
that makes you run
into traffic. it claws
off your clothes, strip
by strip, buttons falling
like plastic hail. It fills
you with fire and rain
all at once, it burns
hot and cold,
bitter and sweet.
beneath the howl
of silence, the wailing
pulse of firing squad
thoughts. that itch,
the one that runs
deep into your ribs
like hourglass sand
scattering. like familiar
poison. like the a canyon
your humanity. the last
your unsteady footfall
My feminist rants drive all the boys from the yard.
Get off my land you little shits.
Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t build character. It only hurts.Kate Jacobs, Comfort Food (via feellng)