ticking with a slight, tenderising ache (say: hearing there’s trouble somewhere else in some other hard to pronounce country)
he’s a Virgo/in, or she’s a Gemini, and he is a Cancer and they are trouble (like: there goes hubba bubba trouble)
when the mood’s right, when free speech arises (as if: he pulls her down when she wants to)
every season is concentrated energy, you – you coven reject – know this rioting secret (because: the internet)
retracting the classic mode of consumer enquiries (excuse me: I broke this, can I buy it?)
the new girlfriend’s talking cultural overthrow on the latest iPhone (step four: concrete the children underneath the house)
and I open up my slim lost boy, unhinging their head from their neck, tipping their blood down the sink in slick never-coagulating rivulets of rendered red, I come blood, he comes blood, they come blood, blood may come and so may we, if only we can excerpt this location from the form and featured image, or stop listening to that sort of music.
the ugliest is yet to come (confession: I will probably say thank you)
a hundred harms before, a hundred harms to come (witness statement: the first time I was raped, precursor to “the second”, “the third”)
having only wanted to give my consent, I’m ashamed to say it didn’t happen easier (i.e. comatose)
eleanor j jackson 