FA23

I touch my hand to the gossamer edge of reality, swirl light around my fingertips, grind my hips, dip in.

I stare into the depths at the edge of understanding. The darkness growls back, smiles at me with pinprick teeth.

There are dead leaves on my windshield. They explain to me the passage of days.

We threw our hands to a full moon, moved as if trying to expel sorrow by force.

I have no more shelves but I keep buying books.

Demon Slayer is just Full Metal Alchemist without the nuance.

I sit in the waiting room and wonder what I and these people have in common to have arrived at this place, with these neuroses, at this juncture.

Growing up, my Mama told me to be Good and Nice. These days, I choke with her blossoms in my mouth.

My type, despite all my best intentions: stoners with absence in their eyes.

He hugs me tighter than I expect. I try not to flinch, lie about “sometime soon.”

I breathe the night air. She caresses my lungs, kisses my cheeks, tells me, “You’re alright. You are alright. You are all right.”