All in Poems-ShortStories
The yelling had gone on for hours, amassed,
billowed out from my parents’ bedroom
doorway, where my brother and I lingered
and watched greedily.
I often forget that I love you.
We’ve talked about it.
It doesn’t mean I treat you bad.
gets worse during the night, so I peel
myself off my sleeping husband
for a cup of honey tea.
In a restaurant off Highway I-35,
that might have been Cajun or Italian,
which my father picked for my going away lunch,
An orange gremlin lives at 1600 Penn
and we all read 1984 again.
When I was young my brother
would come to my room at night.
His body was made of vapor,
his face a ghostly white.
Stories about depression don’t get told very often because it can feel like there isn’t much to share. You walk around in white noise and static. Days run together in endless loops. There’s a lot of staring at ceiling fans.
Hold me, Scold me, Cop me, Stop me, Check me, Sex me, Do me, Woo me
The parasite on Elle’s back was getting bigger, but she hadn’t noticed yet...
And right after you cum on my back
all i want
is some fucking breaking bad
Sweat was sprinkled on your cheeks,
round and flushed,
and reflecting light from the stainless steel ovens
across the counter from where we sat
You did not hold my hand:
I stopped reaching out.
You did not listen to my story;
I stopped talking.