1/16/2016

The days drag themselves
succinct, akimbo-
spitting out the day in spurts and
steadily vomiting the night.

I am never afraid of death in the winter.

And so when I sit in bed
and out of the corner of my eye I see
it- death has always been a sort of

white rabbit, I once felt I was one
crushed in a young girls' hands,
having to carry that burden for the rest of her life

I don't want to say that
I missed innocence, in fact,
I want the pleasure of losing it again (Fitzgerald)

I read so much Fitzgerald that year
perhaps because I felt my life was
on some sort of side of Paradise.

Was clumsily and unbearably in love,
Princeton summers,
Was quite unloved
New York autumns,
Was throughly confused
New York winters.

The men come at us,
fling themselves like a screeching
jungle animal of a kind

But we don't care,
we sit in the park fermenting
like we usually do

but still the men laugh
still they come at us
while our skin sloughs off our faces
and we tell them "I'm dying, don't come any closer"

I felt like my face being ripped off once
but I didn't try to do anything about it
of course.