NOTES FOR A STORY ABOUT LOSS
if you’re reading this aloud, make sure you whisper so the shadows can’t hear you
in the future, someone will dig up our bones, & we will ^ be beautiful
it wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t stay
i wear a cone to avoid gnawing on my
idk sad blue ventricles
the pastor called him by the wrong name at his funeral & no one said a damn word
the men we repaired ^ shimmer in the golden hour, in the light they are soft. in the light they look nothing like the men we slept next to (with?)
at 5 a.m. the windmills look like demons without a home. i almost feel bad for them
warm cleavage ofcold consequence of morning i try to think (see) ((feel)) (((breathe))) in a language more brilliant than myself
i once knew a boy who tore a branch from a tree & made it into a weapon simply because he could. he too shimmers in the golden hour.
somewhere a wiener dog angel is wondering when we will be reunited
every morning i eat an organic dog treat & chase it with a shot of rum (shhh)
it takes a few drinks, but if you’re patient you’ll hear my father talk about the ghosts
that live inliving in his spinal fluid → one of them looks like you
sometimes staying is the loneliest thing you can do
for years my body has wandered around without an occupant → there are worse things
i get the most compliments when i go two days without eating…some funhouses are the size of a celery stick
self-destruction is only partly about the self *** come back to this when you figure out the other part
your initials on my wrist have already started to fade (hope it’s okay i didn’t include your middle)
also: i forgot to wish your father a happy birthday on fb yesterday
there are tremors & there are short-term solutions. my liver stretches out its fractured (better word???) arm & latches onto whatever poison it can find.
got the chance to exist.
i saw a tweet lamenting all the queer stories that were squashed before they ever even ^
existed. someone named god regrets their role in this mass execution.
speaking of god, they are not inside me (or are they? fuck it)
words are little gods & little gods make the most terrible gods
in the desert there lives a black & white billboard featuring smiling housewives. the significance of the text “the last resort” is not lost on
meanyone (grrrr stfu about yourself already????)
the shadows of everyone i’ve ever hurt follow me around from moment to moment. when i walk down the street, i am a crowd.
the cop left bruises on my wrists at age 17 & & & & & &
& there is too much to say
more often than not, when person q tells person x about their new love interest, person z, the first thing person x asks is what person z’s human shell looks like
i hope / no i pray / no i beg you don’t hear me when i say things like “i’m not going to eat today”
do you remember when you said you wanted to get rained in with me & build a rainman (but never a life)?
my mother has swallowed thousands of mirrors throughout her lifetime. where do needs (what is the velocity of needing someone?) go when they die?
late at night my father can be found digging through his own femur, in search of sins he buried like toys in the sand
the body does not need water nearly as much as it needs love <<today or tomorrow, take a photo of yourself wilting, make like a venus flytrap too tired to survive>>
turns out that gaslighting has to do with the lights going out of your eyes
i wish you had sent smoke signals before it was too late >>>>> i’d have known they were yours by the shape of your pain
i still think about that day you asked me for my definition of happiness & i neglected to say You
it’s true, i loved you until i was no longer sentient
every night i dream that it is your birthday & you finally come home / you grin that fucking grin i adore / stomp your boots on the lonely welcome mat / & → unfinished?
do you ever come home?
Marisa Crane is a lesbian writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Hobart, Maudlin House, Pithead Chapel, Occulum, Okay Donkey, Cotton Xenomorph, Pidgeonholes, Pigeon Pages, and elsewhere.