Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2014
desecrating the bathroom floor of a home that’s barely my home with blood or *****, what’s the difference? it’s not even my bathroom. my bathroom is one flight up. a boy I barely remember is talking to me & somehow I’m talking to him back, or am I? feeling dizzy like a sunburn with plenty of ***** left to go around still in my throat, plenty of food still in my stomach. 15 liters of food in somebody’s stomach could make that person’s stomach explode. sometimes I have dreams about stomachs exploding the way the sky does just before nightfall, like it has a virus or something. a girl walks into the bathroom & I’m still sitting cross-legged on the floor of this stall wanting to throw up but trying not to, a plastic bag next to me, and an open wallet, purple water bottle. every bit of me wanting to tighten up like a small dog. I picture bruises opening up across the backs of my legs. I picture grandmother commenting on the size of my stomach when I see her tomorrow. my grandmother has wrinkles deep as the belly of a pregnant cow. something about the way I interact with my grandmother reminds me of the skeleton of a dead bird. like the dead robin I saw walking to the bus stop from my house, on broadway, next to the old synagogue; dead robin reminded me of a ****** up crying infant & I wanted to bury it like one. (a girl walks in on me in the bathroom & I squeeze up, hush up, she sees you, it’s too late, swallow your skin.) everything these days reminds me of a ****** I saw once on T.V. with some boy I can no longer remember the name of.
loisa fenichell
Written by
loisa fenichell  ny
     Neon lights
Please log in to view and add comments on poems