Untitled

I smell of blood and turmoil.
gritting teeth and red-stained lips
plead and please in bittersweet cacophonies.
I’m guilty of lies. What does that make me?

I’d be a better ghost than human.
home when I see the headstones cropping up from frozen earth
the ease of knowing undisturbed rest surrounds me —

it’s common knowledge you are doomed to eternity
in the clothes (or lack of) you left in.
if you know me,
you’ll attest I make a costume change per
every mood i rifle through, but alas
the peace of not paying taxes outweighs the
burden of never wearing Balenziaga

i could make a habit of possessing twig-like 20-somethings as they strut in runways,
stealing the glory of their youth in looks triple the rent of their
closet sized studios apartments in the Lower East Side

fluffy mauve earmuffs
a journey into the erotic carnival,
prudish masturbation for the reformed slut
I remember sewing my third pair of pointe shoes with a carpet needle.

whoever said death was the final destination never understood the term:
“fuck it, we ball”

January 7, 2024

Mythic

four // once