something from nov. 9

              In legitimizing the smallness of women. In normalizing their role as a man’s plaything. In belittling them in his dismissal of Hillary Clinton as a “nasty woman”. Donald Trump pushed me into a hole. He pushed every woman into a place where going into work and being called “Girl”, and “Love”, and “Sweetheart” is a depth she cannot emerge from. In supporting him you support an America where I am nothing more than a stranger’s “Honey”. I am something someone can touch while she makes coffee. Someone who can change her hair in an attempt to shake a bit of her mundane life and have men respond with “I liked it better dark” or, infinitely worse, “Your new hair is sexy. It works for me.” When I woke up November 9th at 1:40 a.m. and whispered to my boyfriend “what’s happening” and he replied “mostly the same” and I understood in my sobering-up, just-awake brain what that meant, I didn’t know how to respond. I, immediately, felt fully awake without really being alert. At 2:15 I left for a walk. My boyfriend asked if I should go. He asked me to stay safe. I told him that was impossible (subtext: duh) but I needed this so please just let me go. On that walk I cried and screamed and chain smoked Camel Crushes because the world I had known shifted at its very core. And if you respond to these feelings with a “but that is how it is”, “this attitude towards women does not begin and end with Donald Trump” fuck you. FUCK YOU. His election makes these attitudes our country’s policy. In the way that electing him means that our country is fine with deporting immigrants and barring immigrants and pushing even further into the margins the marginalized it makes this attitude what. we. believe. to. be. True.


on the line

my life will be lived in a hot pan
sauteed over fire with shallots and lime
defined by flashing silver and late nights
crashing into cotton long after my love

floating on juniper-y liquors
and lavender, coriander brews
with a flick, twist of skinny wrists
until insomnia means nothing

and tomorrow comes

via (never pause)

clay villains

every night i slide into dreams.
they are bad dreams
vivid and dark villains pushed together,
red and grey and brown clay
edges still crinkly
if they were rolled smooth,
orderly marbles
with clean whorls and intents,
i could place them

but no

they are people with-
three names,
two voices,
no faces.
people i know
or don’t

every morning i wake up unsettled
sweaty to my toes
trying to hold onto the villains
long enough to remember their faces
so if we meet again,
i can whisper, “you don’t scare me