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hkr Apr 2017
the summer we got together, we had nothing better to do.
in the autumn, the sun got low and so did i.
in the winter, you got cold and we froze.
in the spring, my inhibitions melted
and flooded the apartment
i took the trash out in my barefeet.

i came back inside with glass in my toes.
if you’re going to bleed, you said, bleed out the window.
i left ****** footprints all over the carpet.
you were so angry, you ****** on everything we had
i put it all in the washer, even our bodies.

when we were clean
you looked like a stranger
but i would still leave with you.
hkr Apr 2017
in my dream, i eat dinner with your family. except, they don’t look like your family until you sit down across the table. then, they all grow faces: your mom, your dad, and your three brothers. their wives are also at the table and, when you say mrs. kennedy, we all turn to look at you. now you look at me like i just grew a face, too, then at my hands; i have a diamond ring on every finger of each hand. you grab me by the elbow and drag me away from the table. you pull out a flipbook of all the girls you’ve slept with, all tall brunettes like me. then there’s actually me, on my back and on my knees and on top of you. look, you finally admit, i only wanted to *******. i wake up.

in my next dream, we eat lunch at a table outside with your children. there are four of them: a tall japanese boy, a little black girl, and a set of freckled, white fraternal twins. they are all named john, like your father, even the girls. the boy twin is on a leash but, when he tries to run into oncoming traffic, you let him. they’re not really your kids, anyway. they’re the babies your ex’s carried to term to try to make you stay. it didn’t work, you say, like it’s something to be proud of. i don’t want to have your kids, anyway, i am reminding you, when the boy comes limping back screaming mommy. i wake up.

in my last dream, you eat breakfast in bed with your new girl. she smiles with her entire mouth. her face is stuck like that, top teeth cemented to bottom teeth. she laughs at your jokes through the enamel. wanna go for round two? you ask and she answers you like yeth. she gets on her knees and you push her head down to **** you off, your **** banging against those teeth. open up, babe, you say, open up. she can’t. i sleep through the night.
hkr Apr 2017
let’s be adults about this. let’s slam the dishes as we do them. let’s scrape what’s left on everyone’s plates into the garbage disposal; i’ll flip the switch when your sleeve gets caught. let’s put away the kitchen knives, chop chop chop, and see who finishes with the most fingers left. let’s put the nubs in tupperware and put some aside for susan, just let me spit in the container first — or would you rather *** in it? she’d probably prefer it. let’s answer the phone when she calls, answer your phone, answer it. answer and i’ll put your head in the microwave and turn it on high, i’ll blow the house up, i’ll

keep your voice down
the children are outside
quietly dividing up their toys.
my dad and stepmom have been divorced for like 7 years idk why this was on my mind, but i used it for class.
hkr Feb 2017
lost my **** last night. keys, wallet, id. i have a theory that this is the universe in which i take every wrong turn. i walked down high street until i hit a dead end and kept walking. with all this midwest in my mouth i’m lucky i made it this far, but i don’t feel lucky. my friends keep bragging about how dumb they were to end up here. they almost make me miss hating myself for not breaking 2000 on the sat. really, i miss addy. i went back to the white boy, but it isn’t the same. i left that version of myself in michigan. leaving myself was the first wrong turn, but when i tried to make a u-ey i spun out and ended up here.
hkr Jul 2016
new york, you are a grim reaper. there should be a minimum age required to move to you, a number of years one must have lived to move to you, before you’re allowed to take the rest of them. new york, you kept me out until all hours and rose me from the dead each morning. jesus —now there’s a guy who knew his stuff: one resurrection was more than enough, thanks. you tell me he drank, too. was it his fault, too? new york, you are slowly killing me, but everywhere else i am already dead.
hkr Jul 2016
there are hours before bed
i think i'll turn in now instead
i think i'll burn instead
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