One answer to “how” and “why”:

I sent my body
walking out of the closet alone,
drunk. Throat bared, singing,
“Here it is, if you’re
holding something sharp;
here I am”
She comes back every couple
days with scrapes on her knees,
weird bruises on her arms. Her mother says,
“Those look like fingers.”

Comes back hungover
with ink drawings on the backs of her hands,
flask empty, a fresh
entry or two in her
journal. She comes back in
the afternoon and calculates
the number of sleeping pills to
take to not be conscious for the next twenty
hours or so. It’s wonderful
to be young! It’s wonderful

to be in love. Give me your tired, your shit-faced,
your pushy hands on sexy dissociated
corpses, your stupid girl crying on the kitchen floor until
she wants what you want, the vague memories rising from
the depths of blackout, a strange man that apparates
in a room she doesn’t recognize, give me
your hollering screaming (still) drunk on the
sunny Saturday morning streets — how captivating
she is, how free her spirit, how naked
her throat


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