The basilisk’s vision causes death because of what can’t be seen: we forget our eyes’ radiance, that they are two-way mirrors, that I am always bifocally yours.



Omarosa— looser— loser— that relationship ended quickly.
I don’t dare be her fiancé: wWe’re in the trenches together to avoid fixing a gender blackout. l'm holding back, open to being a stupid squirrel, and I see the makings of what she did to me drunk on the dime.
The room must have been dissolving into braided rivers again and again. Maybe, while saving the cute kid from fire,
from day-to-day gutters,. Maybe, you lose her?
In my experience, it's always worth waiting for Omɞ.




We’ve been here before, trucking through a gut-deep gratification. My primary concern at present, any time now, while you forget just what to say that I don’t wonder at, is really that what I needed to get taken care of won’t prevent any confusion, concern, secret mess, hurtful or snarky trouble, etc. We potentially are where things stand— one tucked in the other, messing with being but without leaving it open. I appreciate that, and I apologize, just waiting to cut it out.



or, both
(for andi)

I got tangled up in backbiting remarks insinuating that treachery still subsists here among the mechanics. To be fair, our higher diction died in the nineties. It’s comforting somehow that as it became more finite, it became more disappointing. I thought the penalties I'd designed would handle our syntax accordingly, would drive questing into delay, shifting the orientation to show possession, something like a patient battle with removal. But I was popped in response.

Last week, while talking through our mics, we found it again, captured in our suffering.

Before I respond, before I potentially resect it, I remit your apostrophes to the historical present. May we no longer be bubbled by the physicians of the murdered or the antibiotic hue and cry of white women’s experience.