by Eva Irene
should i start collecting bugs again, like i used to do when i was a child?
i could, of course, choose the easy way out and come clean about it all
- the drugs, the alcohol, the sex, the abortion, the cheating, the anxiety, the one time i dreamt of birthing your child
the world’s sins, wrapped up into one average-looking, walking, talking contradiction
and i have this friend who never listens,
she just awaits her turn to speak
i bet she’s also the oldest of three,
firstborn fruit of a loveless marriage
she now looks for warmth in beds she barely sleeps in and dreams of living by the lake
why haven’t i moved to portugal yet?
sunburn or some tough love, i don’t know what i need most
mañana, i’ll be a pile of worms under the ground
better be happy with very little while we’re at it
cause they’re putting clowns on a pedestal
and mass produce Matisse for the nouveau riche
's white walls
cualidad de sobrio.
took the train to the seaside, everything was closed so i peed in the dunes,
a cop saw me + gave me a fine
life’s no fun anymore
you need to learn your lesson or the lesson will learn you, LOL
i’ll switch to Gauguin and think about Tahiti
white men talk about the Congo as if it’s still their home
he prepares fresh Fufu every Tuesday, like a boy without a father, desperately clinging on to every good guy that comes along
reality/concept/absurd/molecules/still here/i like being here. i’m still here, aren’t i?