Two-hundred and Fifty-five: fuck you, fred

chasing small whirlpools in cracked bowls,
tears set sail like boats from the dark docks
of my eyes. no amount of pleading will ever
bring them back so i say ‘fuck you, fred,’
over and over again, and then i begin
to throw up palindromes.  once i am
only a shell, i rest my head on the porcelain
womb of my  weakness, pale as the dawn,
and try to keep the torn hole of my mouth
still. i swallow mountains and build mole-hills.
and then i close my eyes and pretend to sleep
(i dream as if fred and i really made amends).

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

8 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Fifty-five: fuck you, fred”

    1. I sure do! We should compare notes! Make charts and write reports. Analyse their sailing skills. Actually, that might be a bit weird seeing as I don’t even know what your face looks like.

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