this lipstick tastes like lipstick: a feminist rant

the seasonal shit hit me hard this year and i had trouble
getting out of bed and into the shower and dressed like a slob
because who gives a fuck, i’m in a long term relationship with
(a man, which, as my lesbian friend pointed out
already makes me a shitty feminist
in the collective minds of a certain brand of feminist)
someone who doesn’t give a fuck if i look strung out or hung over
still wants to smooch me before work
but then i had this conversation with a friend who has no stake
in whether or not i am attractive to him (he’s gay) and
he said if i looked as good as you do in red lipstick
i’d wear it every day
this came at a weird moment where my little sister
lost enough weight to give me the clothes she wore
when she was my size and there was this very nice blazer in there
and i threw it on one night to go to the bar
and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror
and went hot damn i look sharp, maybe i’m a blazer person
and then i bought like four more blazers at a thrift store
because i don’t drop serious money on clothes as a rule
yeah this gets long buddy
click below to continue

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the substance of the substance of the substance

she says no no no you don’t trust them
but you can go to clubs
and bend over and take it
from four or five and never trust a one
not to yuck a yum
but whatever
torsion exists in my root chakra
is certainly bespoke and
fuck if i don’t have to half
love someone for it to kick in

so the dissatisfaction has the one
syllable more more more
how to put this delicately
i want the person i’m fucking
to take over assessment and distribution
of the punishment and praise
i so richly deserve
i want to be told a story
about cosmic timeless destiny
and if i don’t believe it i’ll sink
o ye of little faith

but in lieu of anything to
call itself love
call it self-love
and what a weight to lift alone
say the right word in the right tone
and you take a few kilos
without even trying
see also: the apostles
who tried to walk the lake
they knew
the hardest part is in you
the belief bit remains unaffected
by how your face looks
when you come again

i could give you chapter/verse on why
but you’d say whoa girl that’s heavy
and nobody gets to fucking call me girl
unless they fucking mean it
but there’s a happy ending i swear
at least for now
i fucking mean it

blank speech

well because see i have this thing with wanting
i wasn’t allowed to want things when i was a kid
the heart is deceitful above all things
and desperately wicked
who can know it
hot damn sometimes
the bible contains really great poetry
i was always a psalms girl myself
yeah that and ezekiel
yearning for deliverance from yearning

like i’ll have moments where i know i should be alone
and silent and rest and read books
and i’ll say yes anyway and push back pain
and fatigue and irritation
and go out with people and drink
and i’ll do this for weeks and weeks and
and one day i find myself hating everyone
and wanting to run away

yeah okay you get it. and it’s like that
with love too like i’ll be in denial about a
fucking crush for days weeks months
until what the fuck that’s not a crush
that’s an obsession my good bitch

oh and the capacity for obsession, god
that’s a whole nother story
i’ve got too much free
time to obsess obsess obsess
and not enough to express
how it feels from the inside
of course i keep trying
nature of the beast i guess
at this point i’ve grown
used to the embarrassment
like bad hiccups in public

so yeah you guessed it
i’ve been drinking because drinking
(somehow) is an ok thing
to want
every single day round these parts
i’m starting to think i’ll never feel free
in a city with so many bars
supporting the brunch-industrial complex
it’s also ok as a method of self-punishment
i’ll get blitzed enough that i don’t have to finish my

public apologies

i’m sorry i cried all my makeup off in your car
i’m sorry if you really are secretly uncomfortable when i hug you
i’m sorry for taking a huge dump all over fast car
i’m sorry i sat silent in your presence and focused on my work
i’m sorry you met me on a blackout drunk asshole night
i’m sorry that i can’t hear well in bars
i’m sorry about sending you yet another pine tree poem
i’m sorry for constantly fantasizing about escape
i’m sorry the only escape i can find right now comes in a bottle

murmuration

i’ll write this tomorrow
when i’m not holding a cig
when i’ve fallen apart again
why is it
when i’m together
everyone’s scared
but i divide
you could have
so many pieces

you’ve seen birds
like this person
i am
broken up into
hundreds thousands one

& walt wasn’t special
for containing multitudes
you fucking asshole
i’m sorry i didn’t
mean that

i’m not as explosive
as you think i am
just a little more
than you want me to be

& why is it
at this time
there are only two
trees to land in

the fuck do you mean you haven’t seen say anything

I will not fall
Into the spiked pit of self loathing
In this bar tonight
I just fucking refuse

Sure I crashed the car
But in my defense I’m running
On two hours of sleep
And a Whole Lotta Booze

And I’ve got this whole
Peter Gabriel thing right now
Because I’ve got a boom box
And you’ve got a window
But ne’er the twain shall meet

You know I lied just then
I don’t own a boom box
I stream everything on Spotify
And I don’t know that you have a window
Maybe you live in a basement
Fuck it: the metaphor stands

But I’ve always been better
At carrying people over broken glass
Than I am at kissing them
Sure sucks for flirting
But you’d love me forever
If you spent a minute in my head
While I’m walking to the grocery store

And yeah it’s this fatal mix
Arrogance and ego and delusions
Of grandeur and hating yourself
And your poison fucking blood

I’m fucking up my format
But screw it, I’m drunk
Call this one of the trash pieces
I’ll steal some shit
Because that’s what we artists do
You could have a steam train
Etc etc etc

I had an ending for this but

but try it anyway

the truth is when i really dig deep
and try to recall
all his lessons
were passive
an unwrapped birthday toolbox
with everything i’d need
go on kid
teach yourself, like I did

what she gave me
were clear instructions
this is the way we bake the bread
this is the way we mop the floor
this is the way we set aside
our anger and hurt and desire

both stuck deep in different ways
i won’t let people teach me shit
i hate everything i have
ever been taught
dear christ let me unlearn
let me unlearn all this someday

i am ian’s busted heart

someday someone’s
gonna love you
this much & you’ll find a reason
to say no anyway

you think someday
you’ll be ready
but it’s 23 all over again
when you’re scared you’re screaming
no no no no no
it’s not a habit

but love
love is a mirror
and we hate the sight
of ourselves in sunlight

don’t look at me like that
i can’t look at me like that

you’ll pay for the whole seat but you’ll only need the edgelord

that fuckin voiceover guy’s
all in my head again
IN A WORLD
WITH SO MANY IDEAS
NOBODY CAN TAKE CREDIT
FOR ANYTHING

inspiration’s a hell of a drug
and i know a lot of dealers
variously melting down
into shithead slag
doin that osmosis thing
john bunyan’d look
at this pile o brain goo & say
damn
that right there is
a slough of despond

oh but the flipside though
yes yes we will yes
it’s a good sharp needle
with a cocktail that’ll
send you sailing up and out
hey there are trees down there
how bout that

you’ve got this thing for unpronounceables
you’ve got this thing for parachutes
you’ve got this thing for mixing highs and lows
i guess i’ve got this thing for pining

in a world
where nobody ever gets to be truly alone
nobody ever has to be truly alone

i could go on all day
but eh a girl’s gotta eat
quoth the poet:
live mas,
unquoth