By Abby collins
I'm crying clownfish-
they fall into my miso soup;
you're playing with chopsticks.

Sundays are meant for hungover love,
high by myself, between fever dreams,
sweating through baby pink sheets-
you slept with a blue-haired bitch,
we were just kissing,
on a tile floor that felt like jelly

keep breathing silence into the phone-
because I'm thinking about how miso soup will forever break my heart,
might peel off my skin again
as I watch the stars scream,
shut my mouth with fingers,
I'll suck them like lozenges;
you'd never know I was sick

sitting here on windowsills,
filling our lungs with wedding cake,
all I do is cough up strawberries
because the world looks so much better pink,
my hooked hands made my legs bleed;
the room is already dripping red
and I'd talk until you wanted me to stay
I'll make love to Winter,
but leave my heart back on the sun with Saint Cassidy.

Read Issue 17