"kettlebell" poems
I.
you never saw me in winter:
shearling fur and kettlebell boots
my outer crust cracking from one step outdoors.
I wear socks to bed
and smoke Belmonts to cover
my breath with toxins
instead of you.
II.
I never wear pants when I’m with you
mostly because I’m hoping to re-enact me walking
over the Millennium Bridge
in May.
if the wind pushed any further
up my skirts, it would force my lungs right out my throat.
my hotel room called for us
but you were on a plane to Norway
and I was in my head.
III.
the last time we had ***
you told me you’d finish me off first next time
but I’m always like your backup song for karaoke,
in case someone takes your first choice.
you never:
acknowledged that my rice was shaped like a heart
and yours like a star at dinner,
ask me what my tattoos mean,
but always ask me if I’m pregnant.
you’re a roll of film that needs be developed but
I keep smearing the edges with my fingers
and scanning the red light over myself.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
How do you explain to
your parents that
the reason your grades
are so low is because
there is a hole
in your heart
a sinking feeling
a kettlebell of 50 pounds
an anchor dragging
you down
a monster in your brain
that makes you
forget things
but not one thing
not one thing
that one thing stays.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 6:18 AM UTC
Here we go again
14 months
No money and no job
Goodbye
American dreams
Hello poverty and survival
After I pay off the credit card this month
I guess I'll buy some new running shoes
And a kettlebell
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC