it just rips apart my chest—to want to both share the words and keep them forever—if everyone knew maybe they would call me a fake, make me twist my neck. it just pours out of me and I don’t know how to stop. I’m famous for not being able to keep my mouth shut. the Narcissus in me wants to see my words everywhere, even in the soft echoes of the people I left behind (what a long exhausting list). so I drag my hands across the page, cursed cursive. my fingers weave the poems into place; I drink sparkling wine to make my world starry and the words tumble onto the page, loud laughing drunk things, with a smeared bloodstain-lipstick kiss to sign it off. and when I rip the pages apart and throw them into the wind, they turn into crows that peck my head until I vomit the words out again.
© Alexandra Jema