this is called...

"I went through a three week period of constant dissociation in which i meditated on the current state of affairs in my life and wrote this rambling note to myself"


 she is:
a paradox
stretching on into unfathomable infinities
a tigress
a fierce, unfeeling beast
blood, bleach, and fiery salts
the oxford comma of your existence
your body-- naked, vulnerable
bruised, blotchy skin tied to brown leather the color of--
fuck it.
here's the thing about perfect metaphors: they don't always come when we want them.
i guess that's life.
you scream.
feel her presence like the dirt under your barista's fingernails
"you were not a mistake," she roars
mouth full of raw flesh
venus in retrograde
she is your father's temper and your uncle's love.
a prayer for your mother: that she will not find you like this
she doesn't deserve that cyanide pill.
you have already starved her body for too many winter nights
being born in reverse and all over again
the way she played "cigarette daydreams" for you
6 months.
29 days.
19 hours ago.
children share in your act of blasphemy as you make yet another revision
pop punk romance.
acting it out because you really. didn't. care that her teeth were ripping out your vocal chords
impossibility. "pathetic accuracy."
pain. noun. -- heroin to your butchered heart
shooting venom until you are so fucking high that the sky turns green, you feel your hands crack open, and you choke on gravel from the bathroom floor
lay your skeleton day in the moss behind your dealer's back door
blood will seep from underneath your fingernails as you draw your final breath
even then she will haunt you.


By Ash Cohen

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