pluto
dear doctor: there's a nausea that comes after eating. almost every time. it comes together with an uncontrollable panic of a sort i've never experienced before. there is a little bubble under my chest that squirts out little bursts of adrenaline-- i can feel it spurt directly into my heart. my mind goes blind, and i become deathly thirsty. yes, i've tried drinking water. uh huh. uh huh. i see. okay, well, okay, then i'll try drinking more water. opioid? i don't really need.... uh, okay. thank you. the pharmacy is next door? alright. so my bill is-- hm. okay. right, thank you. yup. thanks.
the taxi stank of sour sweat, and the windows were fogged. not sure from what. the road twisted through the vibrant greens of spring. he could be taking me anywhere, i thought, he could disappear me into these mountains and no one would know. why do i always have to think these things? i breathed through my mouth and focused on the giant bamboo trees streaking by. fear of men is old and familiar; fear of nature and fear of being stranded are new, fears that i only discovered after getting out of the city for the first time in ten years. you can punch a man, scratch his eyes out, yank his balls off. you can't punch nature or time. if they want to destroy you, there's not much you can do to save yourself. to the back of the taxi driver's head, i prayed deliriously: attack me if you shall, just don't drop me off and leave me in the middle of nowhere.
the earth seems to drain me from the soles of my feet, and daylight comes to me only in slanted squares or over the curve of someone's cheek. i need to feel my skin cells tingling. i need my belly to burn from the heat.
a limp vessel for the sun
and still it grows.
i felt jealousy for the first time today, for my unblessed wish to stain you in my dirty scent, to watch the bliss pour into your eyes
but it’s hot and harsh, i’m paper for ink, a pit for kindling
the river has dried
the river is you
sitting on my bed with a bag of chips and youtube on my ipad after a long day of being loved, i recognized a shadow of my fourteen year old self, and regressed into it, and i ate the whole bag, and i thought, how great is life right now, the news is terrible and yet we do still live in a world where young and powerless women like me can attain happiness without men, this is my reality, and i wish i could share it, but i can’t help that i want to pursue my own life, liberty, and happiness, just like the declaration of independence actually said, (huh, america had it right all along) and that’s the world i want for me and everyone, but if it’s not possible, can i have it at least for myself?
i write what i hate, but it feels okay
to talk about your eyes one more time
and the chaos that let us debris collide
just one more orbit around the sun
if i can ask for that
i hope to see you here again, next year
i sometimes forget that i'm allowed to drink alcohol. it's a rush of giddy pleasure every time i forget, and open up my fridge, and see the last remaining beer, and remember, oh yeah, i'm allowed to do that. i have agency over my life. i can ingest and inject whatever i choose after i get home from work, i can down a six pack and a bag of chips, a bottle of bleach, even, i can open the window to my balcony and have a cigarette and throw myself over, or i can take a bath and go to a bar and have sex with a stranger, i can get on a random train and fall into a place where no one knows me, i can ask someone for directions and they might kill me or marry me in ten years. there is a me that exists outside of this routine. a me that is radiant and violent, who resists the order of the universe and demands to live. see, there it is; inside the fridge.
the overwork is obvious in the mirror. she wants to live in color like those stupid tasteless idiots making cheap products for fun but it all seems so irrelevant next to the news. is fun even allowed anymore? can she still believe in the birth of children as an act beyond pain and sin?
the guard posted at the central tower of the panopticon clocks out at 7pm. boris gives him the usual wordless grunt when they swap out. the sky is already a dim blue when he gets to the bus stop. he sits near the back and watches two young girls laugh loudly over something on their phone for a bit, then looks at the little specks of streetlights going by. in the comfort of his home he looks at himself in the mirror. his calves and thighs and shoulders burn from the long hours of dancing. one day he will make it out of the tower. one day someone will see him. and they'll understand, through the movements of his body, the things he wants to but cannot express in words. they'll see his body and his soul.
ah, fuck, sorry, i just had to laugh at this one. my home! this crazy commercial circus. and me, the clown at the forefront, dragging the carriage along. i'm gonna miss it but it's time to let go. it's been a wild ride, tokyo.
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writing since 2025 · 21 entries · 21 days shown up
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