Collective Unrest

 

When Broken Is Broken

April 17, 2019

At this point, the ground is a close companion.
After countless fainting spells, it’s like hugging
a friend you haven’t seen recently.
My arms don’t work like they used to.
These fingers can’t open jars,
legs wobble under the same
useless weight, or maybe it’s more
without the ability to exercise.

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Obituary for the Mundane

April 17, 2019

I am searching for a way to die that does not make use of fire or water That does not make headline of my country ablaze or my children in sinking boats My people's blood is famous for its quiet How it can exist in our veins and in our streets And elicit no response either way I am 22 now and always crying

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Bleeding Out

April 10, 2019

This is how the rich abandon the poor we forget them because we can, over and over again           Don’t you see?

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you don’t want to remember

April 10, 2019

TW for sexual assault    you know by now you know character traits and character acting like a fool in love with yourself you sit alone lonely grayed voices call clear and you comeback

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Sibyl

April 10, 2019

I will not sleep with you, so you curse me—not with venomous words or a mouth full of spit, but with malicious ambivalence, you do not speak at all.

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patriarchal residue

April 3, 2019

I suffer from historical hysteria sponsored by men who explored and discovered the wandering uterus which means I need an orgasm

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Social

April 3, 2019

The restaurant is dark-walled and dimly lit with stained glass chandeliers that give it a medieval vibe. I half expect to see the waiters pouring wine into goblets rather than the ordinary stemware that sparkle on tables between diners. I don’t care for this place. It feels dense and drafty, like a painted cave. But I am here for work so I take a seat where the hostess leads me and I ask for water, no ice. I am waiting for my interviewee to arrive, skimming my notes, inhaling the sweet gusts of yeast rolls that ripple from food trays as waiters and waitresses whiz past me. When he calls out, I do not instantly know he is talking to me. His voice is jarring, like a blow horn at the library.

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The Polite Monster

April 3, 2019

The polite monster says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as he buys you a glass of wine and mauls your friend with his eyes.

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Galosta

March 27, 2019

I. When Elizabeth heard the greeting of Mary, her baby leapt in her womb.

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The Powerful Monster

March 27, 2019

The powerful monster combs his hair in the morning, and flosses his flat, white teeth. He has a drawer full of watches that only speak to him; telling time would be traitorous. His suits are silk, as are his ties—soft as the blade of a knife. When he buttons his shirt, his nails are perfect. Make no mistake; he’ll grind your bones to make his dough, but the dust won't stick to his little hands. His face is pervasive; every time you close your eyes, its imprint is burned on the back of your eyelids. He is powerful, he’ll tell…

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