A Literary Journal interested in your broken, and your resurrected.

TODAY IS THE YOUNGEST I’VE EVER BEEN by SIN

-We sped on gas pedals to parked cars

Lifting dead birds above our heads

Begging godless skies to make death fly 

We sat down to empty glass tables with etches engraved

Bad company sits in full noses and empty stomachs 

Craving eye contact and soft touches

My fingers run across me smoothly as I think of it now 

Imagining you inside of fantasy-fiction made into movie-like truths

Nightmare nightingale nothings

I slept in our waking dreams

You never really looked at me much

I’d always stare at you from across the room

Screaming in my head for you to see me while you watched screens instead

Tethered television telepathy 

Anguish sounds like nothing

Agonizing muffles made mute

The same spot I once wept by your deathbed is now the place I pick flowers and dance on love’s grave

I throw petals above my head 

Divorcing domestication dead to marry myself

Independent philanthropist 

(I am the woman who saved herself)

Former self aged is new self remade

Youth wears a short laced dress

I, my own muse

Once blue from strangled strokes

Now pink from emancipation 

Blushing from the races I ran with unmoved feet

Wearing shoe rubber down to skin soles

Running marathons in a single place

Deeper than kitchen knives 

I spilled red paint from your rose thorns 

Pricking me with each passing

I still wear your flowers upon fingertips from stolen steel

At least I stopped you

Even if it was just once or twice

Even if it also happened upon thighs

I threw away the iron that weighed me

I don’t own any cutlery anymore but I sympathize in kitchen remembrance 

Sanctified trepidation makes me still at certain times

Like the way the light peaks in fresh morning mournings

Gloomy glorious light

I always get sad in bright early time

Scores upon me mark my summer fate 

Masochist medly

I know what they think when they notice 

If they even notice at all

People don’t often get reference

Masochist made metaphors

(But this is between you and I)

Concha Nacar only helped so much 

Scar seared serenades

Seated in rage filled retinas

I am reminded of you in showers and bright rooms

There are some things I can’t talk about openly 

Metaphor madness makes melancholy’s muse

I think of you when I hear words like abuse-

Sin is a sad stripper. She writes because she can’t help it. She makes art out of emerald fascism. Placing free poetry on greedy dollar bills. Find her eating stars in hopeless fields.

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