This is the world of the ATM at lunch,
It swallows your bankcard with a munch,
Then, when the money appears,
Yell, "I won, I won, my dears!"

the sign above her tent reads Misfortune Teller
but they call her the darkness dweller
she doesn't mess around with fancy effects
her tent is a plain black, the inside the same
a single table rests in the middle
and there she sits, black hair and eyes gleaming
a black t-shirt and jeans
adornments are distracting
she takes your hand in her delicate fingers
looking deep into your eyes, into your soul
until everything else fades away
then she begins to speak
in a voice almost whispering
and she tells you your woes
she tells the plain truth, no watering down
she doesn't believe in messing around
and when she's done, you know and you leave
neither of you making a sound
you feel as though it was only a minute
but you were in that tent for hours
you look at the floor, eyes glazed
not noticing people around you doing the same
the sign above her tent reads Misfortune Teller
but they call her the darkness dweller

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SoHo seems nice this time
of year; although I am terrified of going
anywhere near a city that holds you in its hands and above me, too high
to me, you are New York. but when I walk down Central Park West my shadow clings to my shins
you scrape my skin with your breath and I feel hot July air that is trapped between your buildings – these subways are too stifling
I will let you lift up my skirt like he did, but only because I know that it’ll rain heavily the Chelsea Pier after.

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Churchill
I think my eyes are permanently squinted; agonizing over the shape of your eyes and how they
relate to mine – even in the light you’re missing pieces, your rocks are crumbling away, you are sand – your grains hold words –
unmentionable, special, temptress, miss, you, nothing, work, in my dreams, diffuse, instantly, affection, with, you, stuck, darling, attention, far, vivid, feather, waking, wasted, sweet dreams, worth, wish, awake
I always feel my conscious wrap her delicate hands firmly around my throat and pour salt water into my eyes when you are in front of a screen, in front of me – I think maybe I should cut pieces of me
could I mail them to New York? to SoHo? you can curl up with them in bed and try to find the grooves where you fit in, or just fry me on the grill. Ideally, you should consume me so that I may never leave. only if –

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I’ve been pinching and piercing my skin to prevent me from crying more often than
I sleep. I know it’s morbid and dramatic but being slaughtered by tears is not how I want
to spend my Saturday night. I’d rather see Basquiat on a wall or short films screened while I watch you instead. I would walk until my legs gave out and
trace one single finger along your spine. And here I am, grasping my skin between my fingers and pinching, squeezing you out – I can just scrape the excess off after you’re gone
tomorrow I plan on eating as many seeds as I can to grow flowers in my throat and have them sprout past my eyes so all I see are petals. They’ve been missing for a while. The weeds still cover
my stomach. If only when I thought of you I thought of flowers. Most of the time I see a hand reaching through the thickest fog. As I reach for you, all I hear are 35 words that cover me.

When I was little
I used to pretend I was a fortune teller
Looking through the glass orb
Pretending I could see my future
My life as I always wanted it to be.

Now I don't need anything like that
I like the idea of not knowing what I want next,
Although, I'm forever seeing you within all I perceive
No need to imagine how I want life to be
When I'm content with the present.