sense of isolation

June 9, 2020

Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person’s heart and dissolve it.

Haruki Murakami
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

I collect these signs

May 31, 2020

After she’s gone, I cherish all of the signs she was here. I press my face to the pillow and inhale what’s left of her scent. I wear the necklace she gave me, I hold the pendant in my palm while I think of her. My pubic bone aches from grinding against her. I press my fingertips into the small purple bruises on my thighs, she leaves them with her teeth. I run my fingers through my long mess of hair searching for the section she cut, late at night while I sat at her feet and we planned an epic art piece using both of our hair. I love that there’s a short little patch in my mane now, hidden underneath, a sign she has been here with me. I collect these signs like seashells so I can press them to my ear and hear the ocean.

Her Dirty Little Heart


May 28, 2020

Mine was the heart to be stollen, and she was the thief!

smother and torment…

May 23, 2020

Why must you also love me? Why must you smother and torment me, with your grasping after my heart?

Sarah Waters

her breast

April 5, 2020

He traced a blue vein along her breast as if it were a way to her heart.

Greg Sellers
journal entry: Notes from Neruda’s Ghost – 25 January 2020

I was mistaken

January 12, 2020

I was mistaken
when I said you
live in my heart.
How absurd I was
when you live in my
fingertips so that everything
I touch is you. How foolish
I was when you live in my toes
so that everywhere I go there’s you.
How senseless of me to say
you live in my heart
when you breathe in my lungs,
walk on my mind, and
drink in my mouth. I came to
pen another poem for you,
but even every unwritten poem
is you.

Kamand Kojouri

Oh, dear…

December 10, 2019

Both dead girls and ghosts already have your number. But a dead girl won’t call you. A ghost doesn’t have to call.

The ghost is soul lingerie. You can see right through her. She slips through your fingers.

The dead girl is all bawdy. A dead girl is real. Heavy. Sooner or later, no matter how strong you are, your arms will tire, and you will have to let go. And the dead girl will say, I told you so.

You have to try hard, work harder, scrub and pray and do all sorts of things to get rid of a ghost (depending on, of course, who she is and why she’s there).

Dead girls leave you. They’ve already left. Dead girls are past tense. You had good times. You made time. The time of your life. Once upon a time.

Ghosts are timeless. A ghost can be right here right now. But with dead girls, the biological clock is always ticking.

Science may try and assert that there’s no such thing as ghosts. That may be true. However, sooner or later, half of the global population will be dead girls. Or already is.

The most important difference between dead girls and ghosts — perhaps the only one you need to know — is this: The dead girl still has a heart.

Daphne Gottlieb

Dirty Valentine

October 15, 2019

There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.
The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love –
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
a dependable chap, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the American sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.
There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

Richard Siken

My heart

October 15, 2019

My heart broke in two; but soon, damn him, the two pieces reattached themselves. Are you aware of certain sails with a thousand patches, red, yellow, black, sewn with red string, which now resist the worst storms? My heart is like that. It has a thousand holes and a thousand patches, it is invincible.

Nikos Kazantzakis
The Odyssey : A Modern Sequel