clawed
By: Leslie Ortega
claw foot tub and empty chinese food boxes humidify in a city bathroom, a pristine filth I’d
wanna keep bathing in. Do more, do more of it. A pen scribbling too smoothly like deja vu might
just catch up to it. What if we leave? So what if we don’t become the revolution within ourselves.
I haven’t heard from my friend since the day before the well-acclaimed Independence Day.
Messages left on read, it must be a continued holiday; i wish her no dread. The hair hangs
longer into the back of my spine and I feel prettier and prettier with each strand.
Bolt!
Keep jolting like you enjoy planning ahead.
A head popping out, so bare you couldn’t agree more to these injusticias. Bleed red or bleed
nothing at all. The mace only stings as long as the needle threads.
Bolt!
Take heed and feel the demon in your head.
The one reminding you to read it twice over again, “would you still write poetry if it didn’t get you
out of bed?” The white noise will guide you, no one hears you here but only if you stop leading with the pen.
It’s never too late. Midnight, before the fright. You know the peace is in the journey, not the
destination. As much as you want to be stubborn and selfish with this one thing. Not a single
bone will allow it. Who were you kidding? You are not owed anything. There is no taking as
much as there is giving.