it's hard to put a bandaid on your vagina

send my vagina a gift! i have injured myself. my crotch is receiving (and also in a way not receiving). i have done....something. something went horribly wrong. my instinct tells me that people will swarm out of the woodwork once i post this to share stories of personal genital mutilation. meanwhile it hurts to piss.

widowed

i tell myself little stories to make me feel better or at least more knowledgeable about topics that make me uncomfortable. sometimes they're stories that i've heard before from other people or sometimes i make em up. the story i have about getting old and wrinkled is that you have lines all over your palms from the moment you're born and they articulate who you are and what your fate will be but you hide it there, you hide it in your uncertainty, and hold it tight.
when you are old you wear destiny lines brashly on your face you know who you've been and are, all you've laughed and cried and lived and you can greet people with it and be as certain about it as you are about their inevitable fate and let it burrow into the place you think of as your own more than any other.

bones and brains and breaking up is hard to do

you are laying here silently where the barrel meets his temple
waiting for him to pull you closer so that your head will curled into his neck so that you will be an orange rolled into a rind that was once fixed tight around you now a shotty network of pulp veins
you and it will peer
into the pressed pores of his mottled skin as if they could lead you to some huddled truth more real than you are and disarm you of your stubborn resolve
it is baldly interesting to you
the care you take with these moments when your perched confidence allows you distance and your tick tock eyes can study the sleepy dark of a bedroom at four a.m.