letter to the consumer

In the age of information

overload, of ghosts with

flimsy paper power who

shovel cookie cutter thoughts

down our throats to keep us

busy,

I do not

desire to be

palatable,

I do not

ache to be

sweet on your

tongue -—

I want my

body to

burn as you

swallow,

so that you

cannot hear me

without listening,

so that you

must stop and think

about the way history

bleeds behind the

thoughts that you are

eating.

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memories like secret weapons for the pain

I remember the way you let me sit in the front seat of a car headed nowhere, my

music beating like a lullaby on the radio, the

ocean passing by the window like a secret only we knew, like

artwork made for me and you, and

the way we kept going while the roads wound behind until

the sun began to fall back into the arms of the night and

it was time to go back to the things we’d left behind.

build the floodgates stronger, I beg

I tiptoe the line between insanity and reality while

my hands shake with the earthquakes you have

planted.

I cannot feel but I can feel the way my

body is shivering from the cold your words inject

into my bloodstream.

It feels as if there is so much pain held in

the underwires of my skin and I am rushing

home, trying to reach the door before it begins to

spill from the openings of my eyes, before

I overflow.