Men are boring, circling pleasure with eyes wide as clouds. They always move to my knees. But I am
waiting for a fog so terrible it will fuck up the sky. Everyone will find out the sea is a failure and each
system will be discovered as disgusting in origin and development. Having wasted the past 3 days, I am
finally here, sitting by the window with monstrous giggles coming out of my perfect mouth. I have a
schoolgirl’s mouth. This is a fact. If enough men tell you, then it can also be your mental condition. I
attend to it like a fucking adult, swinging my door open every morning wishing the sky was a broken
neck. I take a walk anyway, pretending I’m famous. I decide to enter the room as someone else and feel
alive for 45 seconds. Alive as a handshake. You enter the room so drunk you finally make a point. Some
days I feel so close to dead I become sexy, which is a fact if enough men tell you so. I am writing this on
tiny scraps of paper. I want to see if they rattle or harden under artificial light.
Goldie Negelev is a poet living in Oakland. Their poetry has appeared in Powder Keg, Metatron, Reality Beach, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Cosmonauts Avenue, and other journals.