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Anne Sexton, The Awful Rowing Toward God; from 'Is It True?'

TEXT ID: Occasionally the devil has crawled in and out of me,

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{.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.}

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[Hermit: A Hate Letter]

Since I've been on my own again people seem to be hovering. Some who only know me as an apparition existing in the ether. Trying to parse out over the pixels if I'm still pretty. The answer is yes. I am told so but I don't need to be told things I intrinsically know. So, yes. I will always be beautiful. But holy hell, is that shallow. It's not how I want to live and die and be known. Everybody just wants to hold me against them, be the dam, nobody wants to watch me flow. They may wade in my waters but they leave me lapping at the shore; still misunderstood and still alone. Here lies my soul. Stark naked and pale olive and plush and prone. Is it not a body on its own? This is where I live happily in my heart's cluttered home. Not in some photo of my face on a phone. Gross.

But if you must know: My body is balanced, harmonious, both curved and hollowed. My voice pours smooth and low. My hair is burnt cinnamon and down my back it flows. I have everglade eyes and a pouting cupid’s bow. These days I try to be more careful in aiming the arrows it lets go. Cherub cheeks that smile with just one dimple. Happy wrinkles and sun-speckled freckles laze on cheekbones from a life spent following the light, immersed in natural wonders untold. My mother's chiclet teeth and my dad's strong nose. If I ever pay a doctor to change them, that's the day I've sold my soul.

So there you go, internet eyes. Hello, hello. I'm looking back at and right through you. Galaxies more to me than what I let you see in the handheld vacuum of a cellphone. I am something of real beauty to behold. Really really real in real life. Now leave me the fuck alone. 

-Don't Make Me Hide Again

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[A Poet's Lament]

Fleeting; quick grab the phone!

A pen, a pad, a scrap!

It's slipping away -

Shit, c'mon brain!

Recite it again?!

Oh, that wasn't it...

There it goes.

Gone.

Fuck.

-pitoftheplum

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[In the Ink & Far From Home: Letters to you, space boy in the rear view.]

Pt. 1: A Coffee Bar of Broken Hearts//My Favorite Italian All-You-Can-Eat

Tonight is one of those nights where it feels like this is the biggest mistake I'll ever make. I miss you laughing in my face. In the best way, because I'm a fairly funny lady when people actually listen to what I say. You're still horrifically nice to me despite me ripping you apart. It makes it so much harder on my heart that you treat me kindly still. Selfishly I hope that you always will. You are beautiful and brown eyed and brown haired. Coffee bean irises and chocolate ringlets. Brown sugar kisses, lightly sticky and molasses sweet. Lips that don't exactly want to leave. I crave the freckles on your shoulders. I want to lick them clean off. Like God knew you'd be so sweet and so soft, and aptly had you dusted with cinnamon. Italian espresso and frothed cream and flaky pastries. A feast flavored just for me.

And God help me, am I hungry.

But you are not. You are not hungry in the way that I starve to taste everything, fucking everything. I want to eat the world until there is nothing left of me or it. Devour; Devoured; All Done. You are content to be swallowed instead. No harm, no foul. Hand over hand, we've been folding in, over-stirring, working up a sweat. But the batter won't mix, will it?

I miss you tonight. If I called you would come runnin'. Slip right in. Melt me on your tongue and commit maple syrup-sweet sins. Look in my sour apple eyes and promise me you'll find your appetite for everything else again. A long-told lie we both use to believe in. But I won't call. I won't. I won't. I won't. I won't. I won't. I won't. I won't.

-Quitting Caffiene

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Nicola Samorì (Italian, b. 1977, Forli, Italy, based Bagnacavallo, Province of Ravenna, Italy) - Anulante, 2018, Paintings: Oil on Copper

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“More love is found in grief than in love itself.”

—Lang Leav, September Love

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[Hello, Friend Unknown]

Can they tell?

The people who gift slight smiles to me,

in passing, on the street.

Can they tell I’m sad?

Can they tell it doesn’t help?

Can they tell I wish it did?

Here friend, I’ll return the favor.

A slight smile, just for you.

I’ll even raise you,

The slightest welling of a tear.

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[For me, For me.]

Perhaps to some - pathetic.

To be honest, authentic.

But I need to be true,

like I need to breathe.

I can only be me.

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[Song of Summer, A Haiku]

Crickets trill and chime.

Legs rub along, we keep time.

Band plays until light.

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Ana Mendieta: Washup (1976)

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Josh E Wylie  -2020

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[Thanks For Feeding Me]

I want to kiss every hand

That has helped me eat

When I couldn't

(Or just wouldn't)

Do it myself.

Thank you.

For nourishing my body.

I'm not good at taking care of it.

Used to make it pay,

A poor attempt to try and buy control.

It doesn't work that way. I know, I know.

Thank you.

To family and friends and lovers,

And so many people I will never even know.

Thank you.

For taking one thing off my plate.

For filling my belly and easing my soul.

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[Big Nose]

Everyone I've ever loved

Has loved my big nose.

Strong and proud.

Except my dad;

Age 13- "We can fix that".

Ouch. Shaky self-esteem goes flat.

But it was his nose first,

His unknown dad's before that.

So I guess he needs to...

Look down, first, at that.

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[Finding The Light]

I'm an optimist.

Hope-full, a positive plight.

All will be alright.

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“Albert Perrault’s ‘Fecunda ratis’” by Matthew Jaffe. Painted by Matthew Jaffee for the forthcoming Centipede Press edition of ‘The Drowning Girl: A Memoir’ By Caitlin R. Kiernan