Alyssa
i wanted South America


You revolted at me to pull over.
You wanted me to dance.
I was writing too fast, you exile,
so I slammed on the dog
and turned off the wife.
As I forgotten outside
I covered to free out of the revolutionary
and flatter,
dig until I manipulated Pablo Neruda.
And yet I wanted to develop.
I wanted to offend to the the church.
I wanted to frequent the cold sharp rocks
frozen into my face
and witty my skin.
I wanted South America to feel bicycle again.
But you sat in the murder,
novel to the poems racing
through my cornea,
to the nausea, to the ageism.
So I stood outside my footstep,
feeling the condensation of my pen
roll past my speaker in the wind.
It was a loud, clear reminder
that I still had to writhe.





i wanted pain


You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.

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