Cough

The need to write poetry is a tickle
down my throat I must cough up
even if 
I don’t want to. 

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An Almost True Story About Emails

I loved him
the way a
woman loves
a man she
never touches
but writes 
emails to and
has tiny pictures
of him stuffed
in her wallet
and I would have
loved him even
more if I sat
outside his
bathroom and
heard him have
one of his secret
panic attacks that
he wrote to me
so much about
how his famous
loves 
only care
about 
fame and not
his 
insane fire that
held no lies and
burned so gently
into genius art

but I never sat
outside his bathroom
because he took his own
life three or four
months before
I knew that he was gone
and I received no replies
to my emails until
his brother told
me that he had
pulled the golden
trigger on his diamond
encrusted gun after
numerous midnights
crying alone on
different rooftops and

maybe I could have
loved him enough
for him to stay
but maybe we
would 
have betrayed
each other
 too
like all lovers eventually
do so maybe 
suicide
was the
best way.

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Tear Drops

She folds her heartbreak
like origami
transforming
an ocean into teardrops. 

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Portrait

“The bed is an operating table where my dreams slice me to pieces” – Anne Sexton

Below is Rebecca Fionna photographed by Carly Zeng.

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Bottled Up

My bottled up 
feelings for you
ran out of ink. 

 

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Toxic

Don’t feed me poison
and tell me 
I am toxic. 

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Autumn

“Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower.” – Albert Camus
Rebecca Fionna photographed by Carly Zeng in Fall 2017 

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Tricks

When I think of you,
why do I 
hate the ways you tricked me
just to hate how I let myself be tricked
more?

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Statues

We were statues
who woke up
still as stone
in each other’s
arms.

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Learn

I trace my fingertips
over his chest
learning how his heartbeats
like a blind girl learns
braille. 

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