I pray to any god who will deign to hear me.
That’s my actual tongue circa 2014 in the photo. I thrive on bad choices.
The drawer where I kept my dingy addictions
Black as fresh-made coffee.
You have to listen to “Dead Friend” by Against Me! when you read this poem. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.
I see violets blooming between her teeth.
What are you building, sickman?
Rain: translucent, crystallized youth on sticky, tender lips.
Why are all the men I’m attracted to old enough to be my dad?
What does it take…?
Sappho’s makeup, alcoholism, selfies, and my mom–in that order.