it's been kind of a long year,
and i suppose antagonizing the moon
can only get us that far.
brick churches falling apart,
we've been collapsing more and more often,
in our dreams the rain howls
but it tells us nothing.
faith made us get out at the curb,
drove enough to have us settled
then asked for gas money.
we should apologize to our friends,
tell them that, no, the skies haven't
consumed us yet,
we are still here,
sitting on the wet pavement with
wind whipping at our bare legs.
send a letter perhaps.
'dear Mary,

i can't face you-
dear Mary,

keep it-
dear Mary,

you lied and i knew it and wasn't that ironic-
dear Mary,

the skies con us and steal our bus fare.


I am drunk on the Second Coming
on the concave ending of my nerves
wetness biting down on my tongue
and seeping into unopened textbooks
that cost more than I'm worth

on a good day

I am clenching around a blade
my ribs don't take a bruising
like they once did
it's the police reports and the cheap food
makes one pliant
melts your cells until you're

just barely

fogging up our alleyways
my sister's brother-in-law
seems sad
it's hard to tell
I'm excited
I want to be killed among

DAVE BISTRICEANU is an young lesbian non binary writer, whose work centers around the celebration of complex identities. They live in rural Romania and spend most of their days writing essays on obscure subjects or, alternatively, writing poems on obscure subjects.

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