salt underfoot
I prevented and did not prevent me from going
and the moon around was water
when there is no water and no sea
then it's under my feet
bricks become water and salt

the light is on the streets
day and night quarters
the sea looks at me and I look at it
and get out the paper
I write again and immediately
I go to nimu and only to him

things feel right, now
but you’ve forgot how emotions deceive
and how exes come to be
and how you acquire names on your chest
that eventually get scratched out with red ink
i know your story
i’ve become one with the pages
and lived between its riced sheets
so don’t get too comfortable
making homes out of people
when you’re still trying to pay off debt
to the landlord down the street
Jamin Hollis has her residence in The Garden.
In The Garden, in the bloated blocks of Transit Town.
Behind the day shelter, beside the corner store.
Across the parking lot of the thrift shop.
Beyond the fluorescence of the pharmacy.
Right there, just a hop and a skip from the trains.
Right there, just a scoot from the bus barn.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant bitch and she needs,
she needs to die.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant bitch and indeed,
she'll die tonight.

Wait for the streetlights to dot the immediate sky.
Most of them are dead or flickering in the blocks.
Wait for the junk rats to leave for the metro line.
Most of them are dead or flickering.
If any open eyes remain on the sidelines, take a breath.
Collect your nerve and toss a penny on the pavement.
The eyes will blind to the shine and they will prostrate.

Bow with a force enough to imbed gravel in the forehead.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant bitch and she needs,
she needs to die.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant bitch and indeed,
she'll die tonight.
today i'm dead
and I resurrected

or I died yesterday
when the window was
stars and fire

today i'm dead
and took the torch with him

and the birds sing again on the street

The snow dies on the wet
cement while the pacing
whores are clustered up
again on Tellimont street.

Wading through the abyss                    
of their attention, I see
a blonde in black
with her pale skin
broken blue by the hands
of other hungry men—and I
could be another. Yet, I go on            
walking down the block—despite
distant stares that seem to
be undressing me. Because

I gotta get my fix to quit that
itch. To keep the spiders from            
crawling on my skin—I gotta
look for him.

Go down the red-lit alleyway
pass the pipe-shop and strip
joint and the church I used to              
visit with my grandma every
other Sunday.

Go to the back—around and
about to find my fix with the
man I found. Hands pressed                
into pockets. Searching for
the folded bills.

He whispers “where's the money?”
and I hand it over. He opens up his
tan coat to a jet-black revolver.                            

I go numb. Static inside. Silent. Still.
He extends the gun and presses it to
my thinly covered chest. I feel its icy
touch emptying into me and before I
could even plea—the flare comes free.                  

Ringing envelops me as my back hits
the ground. Blurs and blotches balance
in my eyes and the warm-wetness is
leaping out of my chest. I try to clog
the hole with my hands but the blood
is still seeping out of me. My lungs are
flooded and I cough out the liquid-iron
filling up my throat.

So much time passes and I'm alone now.
I lift my hand to catch the flakes of white
gliding to the ground. My hands no longer            
melt the snow—now they stick to the
browning blood. The snow can live—but
I don't think I can. Eventually, the cold
swallows me, and everything fades away
to black.
This was written October 17th, 2016 for a class I had, where I tried to explain the dangers of trigger warnings for literature. It's definitely influenced by The Velvet Underground's I'm Waiting For The Man. I'm not sure if the concept for the poem is kind of cliche in and of itself. Regardless, here it is.
When Boosie said
I gotta smile to keep from crying
I felt that
That pain of losing a loved one
I wish I never felt that

All these cards I was dealt
I dealt back
Smoking fire and brimstone
Do you smell that
It’s the essence of burning flesh

I’ve been depressed
Since the steps of Death
Crossed my path
I guess Hell’s back

It’s an impression of urns left
And nothing more
Nothing less

Peep said
Ash is our purest form
They say the good die young
Then why are the purest born
Sometimes feel like
We don’t deserve that

I’m still here
So it’s clear that everything
That comes back around
On me, I deserve that

I’m drunk right now
So I guess I got my nerve back
My lil homie died
I’ll never get that nerd back
I don’t mean disrespect
I miss the days of sipping Tec

Now he flies through time
Along with where the birds at
Fell asleep and hit a tree
I didn’t get the chance
To swerve back

All I ask when I pass
Is that you read my words back
I've been reminiscing over pictures
of a time I'm missing
strayed so far away I can't
fathom the difference

I'm not dead, I'm alive

six feet under terra firma
that's a fathomable distance
and I could take it further

an unrestrained mind makes
for a quick learner
not all pain is physical
but we've all felt it

that's our reciprocal

life is about coming and going
ebb and flow
a continuous state of reoccurring

rises and falls
trips and stumbles them all
"going backwards and forwards"
until my smooth texture
becomes so very porous
Nylee May 28
Walking the street
the dark blue sky
yellow on eyes
down the street lights
I move forward
with many shadows
beside me

Empty street
haunting feelings
stumbling legs
there are buildings
all around me
all asleep in darkness
no movements
I can hear
my intake of air

The last street
to the house
I call my own
I drag my feet
so I can keep
the fear of unknown
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