she's a bloodhound for bad omens; she can smell petrichor on a clear day. we're half hanging out my bedroom window when it starts, rain-patter kisses on our dangling feet. we're giggling at the underside of a tree frog stuck to the pane, and suddenly I'm ten years old again, gazing wide-eyed and stiff at dolphins just barely poking up from the oceans surface. I haven't been back to the beach since then -- awestruck into complacency -- glued 30 minutes from the coast dreaming of PTO and a drivers license. she says one day, we'll fall to earth and the river will wash us back out. one day
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:32 PM UTC
one of these days - mama- you will spoon buttered noodles into ceramic bowls, for the two of us.
it feels like a chore now
but one of these days, you will lay shivering in your hospital bed,
hands coarse and worn
and you will complain to me about wishing wishing the hospital pasta was as good as yours.
wishing your strength was enough to make us a meal again.
it was the last time you cooked for yourself.
this will mean nothing to you, as sentiments are lost on the dead.
but I will cry into my little ceramic bowl, and it will mean everything to me.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC
I hate her stupid, incredulous tone when she asks,
"Have you been taking your meds?"
She has been on painkillers and sleep aids
since her early twenties.
The jittering static of a dark room at 4 AM is an old friend to her,
one she hasn't faced in a long time.
I am angry - to put it bluntly - that the only **** meds
that can curtail my too-many thoughts in waking life,
rouse my mind into ceaseless, swirling terrors at night.
I am tired of chasing a 5 hour energy with a lukewarm canned coffee so I won't fall asleep stiff at my desk, open-eyed like taxidermy.
I am tired of having frozen waffles for dinner at 3 in the morning, alone, watching *** in the City re-runs.
I am tired of full-volume alarms under my pillow, set for
7:15, 7:20, 7:25, 7:30, 7:35, 7:40.
I am tired of the inexorable fox-trot that is trying to get in with
a ******* psychiatrist that's covered
by my ******* insurance.
I am tired.
Withdrawal is mean.
She is puking in gas station trash cans,
scratching at her always-scabbed scalp 'till it bleeds,
checking and re-checking and re-re-checking
that she locked the front door.
But she doesn't **** me awake in the middle of the night,
hands wound in a vice grip on my throat.
"I am tired, and the meds don't let me sleep."
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 5:08 PM UTC
On the TV I heard him say,
"No one wants to work these days."
My generation lays dormant
hibernating in parents basements.
We slumber so we can smother
childish desires for a house and a lover.
Our overdue rent on prospect
the proprietor, has come to collect.
Sleep comes quite easily
for us fed-up past employees;
If I stay a pipe-dream ******
maybe I won't wake up hungry.
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 11:19 PM UTC