Something That Makes Me Different Is That I Love Being Miserable
Fun Fact: You tried to get me wet for thirty
months – i was too busy
not eating to notice. Did you know –
this page was once a humming tree?
A scraggy tree is full of bugs.
It fills up with flames and begins to buzz.
Did you know the buzzing is the sound of the juicy wet
bugs dying? Fun fact: they die easy, but there are always
more. O sweet something sing. Something that makes me
different is that I have never been full.
You tell your friends after that my clit is like a cracked
seed in some Sahara.
They laugh and I agree this is amusing because a fun fact
about me is that I only drink water. I get so thirsty
that eventually, I have to go to the hospital, where they wrap me up
in paper and tell me my electrolytes are off. We are pressed
between the sheets. My electrolytes are off, I whisper.
I’m hard, you say – your finger flicks inside me
like a moth smacking itself to death
against a sconce. Fun fact:
first, a flower is invisible.
Then, it turns pink and begins to buzz.
Once I pressed a leaf between the pages
of my Norton Anthology – it turned thin
and veiny like a cock or anorexic.
Around the leaf, a puddle spreads out,
blurring the words of the dead
white men I love.
I love you skinny leaf I killed to keep
from humming – O sweet something sing – you can't see
a bug's mouth unless you look – and why would you?
Did you know that I am inside the swarm?
Fun Fact: A bunch of bugs land on a flower.
They eat and eat and it makes them super horny.
They cum like sixty billion more bugs and die.
Your hands are the hands of a delinquent boy scout –
They strike at the flint -- strike, sweet
misery – strike at the center of me – fill up
the empty. I know you want to hear the music.
I know you want to see a cracked seed burn.
The first time I had a panic attack I was four.
I had the perfect day then I realized I was dying.
My mother found me crumpled like a big pink tissue
sobbing I have a body, I have a body.
Every day I wake up and say “I wish I was skinny” –
but what I really mean is “I wish I was a poem.”
Then I hang out with my friends Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath
They get all their wishes because they are dead forever.
The only thing better than an armadillo is a pink armadillo.
The only thing better than a squash is a ripe pink squash.
The only thing better than a bottle is a poem in a bottle
A poem who is a genie who thinks only of you.
Why marry a woman who is not a pink woman?
Why read a word that is not pink?
In a poem there is no difference between being and becoming.
There is no reason not to want the prettiest thing.