Tag: fear

katherine with a k

A micro-story.

What time is it? Did you even set the alarm? Why do I have to wake up so early? Why can’t I wake up earlier than this instead of rolling around for an hour? Why can’t my shifts start when I’m actually awake? Why can’t I turn off my alarm? Why won’t it shut up? Why won’t my husband get up when I do? Why doesn’t he get my coffee ready like he used to? What’s wrong with me? Why do I stay with him? Wouldn’t I be happier alone? Or living with my daughter and her babies? Why can’t I take the initiative and retire? Why won’t this fucking coffee maker work properly? Did I put the water in the right place? Is it plugged in? Why does it smell like something is burning? Should I look under the lid? Why is there smoke? Why did I set it and not add water first? Why am I blaming myself? Why isn’t it his problem? Why is he so stupid? Why does this needle hurt so much? Why is my blood sugar so high? How much stress can one woman take?

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first response

A poem.

its a way to matter.
to show people you care
past your hard, judgmental stare.
never mind your hearts a flutter
and your stomach tense
and the first impression layered and dense.
humans are fragile
and we tend to crack.
bottle the air from a lifetime of breath
and a legacy wont outlive its trail.

//jf 7.11.2020

 

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the center of the world

A poem.

always sick
always in pain
they told you not to fret
as you hunched yourself over the oxygen tank.
“that lump on your chest is worth its weight in gold.”
you play with your breasts.
those photos online impressed your friends.
days spill over to weeks on end.
you don’t know how many more of your lies you can spin.

//jf 7.8.2020

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Selected Scenes: The Angels’ Melancholia

A spoiler-heavy multi-scene film analysis & review.

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Hmm. Another shot of a woman peeing. She pees standing up at a sit-down toilet, pees on the floor, and pees on a dead guy’s face. Sometimes she poops, too: often at the same time as Number 1, lit sultrily by a bonfire where our protagonists are burning the disemboweled corpse of one of their own. Characters stick their fingers in each other’s holes and you are guaranteed a money-shot of their shit-stained fingers after, too. “Oh, well there’s that” I thought to myself as another disturbing image passed my view while I sat on my couch, high and alone at 10 PM on my Friday night.

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don’t lose my number

A poem.

i prowl methodically,
judicious in my seeing
but there has to be days when you just let it go.
where you just be.
and you communicate
in that old imitable way that our youth betrays.

i hope youre okay
and that your hair still hangs,
with eyes that stare through the bangs.
the tears would well up in your face
when we talked about how we loved
betrothed and entwined
through our own slippery grasp of experience combined.

just the slightest bit of skin is like a beacon,
beckoning for reason.
so when the unreasonable becomes your cure,
please dont lose my number.

//jf 6.13.2020

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