body
i censor body like it’s not bo
dy
til it does the talking for
me
til there is no talking left
recoverlapse plus derivations
always too much never
e nough tried
to lose the you
of me only lost myself
double trouble after
a 4-year
funeral i
won’t treat myself as the
limiting reagent anymore
last week i took seconds saw
my hips (light gentling the
underside of a leaf) told my
sister they tell you to bloom
but you‘re already here
–
bumper sticker
i am that “winged obsessive”
guardian angel of visceral space in
litmus tests for my worthiness i
(contort the second hand of god)
tinker with 3d geometries of a dish
towel pair of feet plastic straw edit
lightsedgesangles so shadows and
surfaces of water bottle are ok with
those of
cellphonetablewindowcrumbtreach
erousspacewherepaperbackcoveris
curlingupoffoftitlepage
if the space fill is not right (and
trust me it isn’t) i try to
sever myself from the umbilical
cord of my
existence
catalyze autobiography chapter
one (new me who’s not me i hope
you forget me)
via
ritual, noun: live burial for the
present tense of myself
funny,
i’ve spent half my life trying to
start over;
i
still carry a dead sentence in the
small of my back.
–
Frances Ann is a 22-year-old from the Pacific Northwest who writes poetry and studies brains.
tumblr: @seaurc
instagram: @flils
