Stationing Direct

 

I walk in, peel my tops off like a bloom

I kneel down to my salted boots and stick

my ass out – look up at the moon in my bra

knock my forehead to the wool flowers

I dust with my soles’ unspecified DNA

and fuck, I have not gotten laid since June

 

Who am I howling at when I rip out every hair

There will be nothing to hate until I am in love

again I’ll get confused by if I’m trying

to make this sexy or violence creaming

my panties, you tease I stand my shoulders

in the mirror pissed if I made this

 

public they’d say I’d asked my nipples to be

hard in see through cups of oh ya

I’m flirting with you, draping so you won’t

pay attention to how beautiful I am

when I’m covered waste down spread-legged

bellying the floor writing no one’s watching

my secret exhibition to my dirty fingernails

 

If I were an object I wouldn’t feel cold

I hear I don’t know if there’s a way to not

use people with my self-love. I bite

my arm and plan on one night without food

You can’t sleep if you’re raised by shit

she stirred into the pot, twirl

tether, shun shoot fuck, my mother

told me next to the chicken you can’t do it

without a man

 

Amanda Killian is a poet living in New York. Her work has appeared on Everyday Genius, Yes Poetry, and Luna Luna Magazine, as well as published in The Opiate. She will begin her MFA in Poetry at Brooklyn College fall 2016.