You’re reading Good Grief. We’re glad you’re here.
organize the fridge, wake up before 9am, I start wanting cigarettes & threesomes, keep googling places I won’t go to, always sorry for myself, muttering curses on cold corpses, driving to therapy. I don’t have botox, but what about regret? At least my poems have upturned palms. I need to re-attach my head, kiss the green monster under my bed, stop waiting to die beautiful. This city terrifies me. I am desperate to be told what to do by anyone who isn’t you. Tongue to peach, starlight, orchard. When did I become insatiable? I’ve been starving myself anyway. My body, ignored all winter, is thawing.
Thanks for being here. We’ll see you later this week with a Spotlight piece.
Until then, have another poem or two. Or ten. We’ve got lots of good stuff.
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