All of my friends have new dead matter

And I have

  1. an apt. with crumbs & staphylococcus aureus on the floor, cabinets stained by red subtle drops, dishes I foster / an apt. without table space to write
  2. the knowledge to never wish another person lonely

III. Trader Joe’s cauliflower gnocchi & reusable shopping bags

  1. a man, his sweatshirts, our fondness
  2. 30 sentences by Klinkenborg, here’s one: “[a cliché] causes gangrene in the prose around it…” (Klinkenborg 45).
  3. stories whose characters succumb to gangrene; they’re lagging & fall away like dust, pretty little things, prognosis: remove their extremities; build them new prose to bask in, write them an ethereal rebirth

VII. mild lactose intolerance

VIII. upstairs neighbors who rearrange their furniture daily, compete in NSFW activities on Tuesday nights, & walk only in heels, the cadence of the click-clack clatter on the same beat as the pulsing headache it gives me

  1. a list of 6 nemeses & counting—message me if you want to be added
  2. an anti-bond with you, we untether slowly, well, I started this
  3. an unmapped space in my brain / I hang up post-it notes on the walls / alongside all my brittle grievances & their company / they’re strung together like eggshell fragments, thanks be to the albumen / & they’re hidden so you can’t see / a volume, a tear, a warmth / of delicacy in me

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