Holding our single night to the light, we suspend moments next to each another
so the bad stands out worse. You pass through. All this focus on being yourself,
revealing yourself, leads to trouble. You’ll be driven insane separating artifice from
identity. I ended up peeling off some flesh too. Now I swing from my hangers. Why so
tormented by your part?
The crown for most authentic of the night goes to — whoever shot the most deer — but
put that plastic rifle back on its tether so the beeping stops. The machine is defensive;
what can I do.
Only kill bucks, not women and children. Your crumpled singles canceled my tab.
The drink didn’t care that I lost and married us in the backwards glances of friends.
I want to wear your skin of loneliness long enough to relieve you from it. The mosquitos
probing my insides love a palm firm against their needle noses, so please, run your
hands across the floor and listen!! as they chase on many awkward legs. How sweet.
Should we name that one after your mother? Hey. That helicopter rousing the
water never connected with its airborne lover. Stop giving them the satisfaction of a
Rise, fall, with the mass on the ground; donate your bold assumptions to the cause;
mourn each layer of fascia that can’t hold. That’s all I learned how to say.
Bio: Bessie (they/them) is a lesbian and tenant living in Boston, Massachusetts. Their favorite piece they’ve written was about Spongebob, for Onomatopee Projects.