Pretty Months

short, nonsensical, less evil

It is MAY as I sip something pretty bitter and black, a mouth full of ichor stained teeth as I wait for it to come back to me in the shape of a steeple stabbed sunrise

Lacy blue veins of water twist under skin as they harden and cool. We scream LOOK AT ME under wet lights, the dampness of your hair as weak as your morning, the feeling in the air indescribable for the better

I speak of days that have not existed, will not exist, and if you are silent you will hear the birds screeching for their turn - a pigeon died yesterday on the tracks, you know, you must be careful-

The calling that comes from down the hall is synonymous with the phone at this stage, breasts deflated, ribs cracked wide, and this is not illness but peace and to deadname one for another is a sin

JUNE rolls over in its grave once I’ve relieved it of its life-force - months, rocks in a river, bleed syrup over simply worksheets before me. A ballpoint pen snaps in half as footsteps crack on pavement

I cease looking for answers and make eye contact with the quiet, for you know needle has pierced the skin when the birds stop singing, when they pray for the soft culling of the night as any wingman does