ISSUE THIRTEEN | FALL 2019
Colin says I think everyone is you turning a corner.
We walk through Westport and the terror shakes me so bad
I lay down in the middle of the road. Get up. Limp and as paralyzed
as the night I wasn’t strong enough
to break your fingers or kick you in the shin—the comical way
I must have twisted; handsome boy in a pretty dress—
did you think that I would forget? I don’t know if I really enjoy sex
or if I’m faking it to seem cool; praying to holy black velvet
running smooth between my highs. If I could bring something back from a dream
I would bring money because I’m not that creative and I have bills to pay
and a body cannot be pulled from a dream as a body from water—
you get to a certain age and dreaming feels silly anyway; I was born
to play royalty in decline, the girl crying in an emerald dress—
do you think this lipstick is permission? How it lines my lips
with their attention; like my mouth is rimmed with blinking eyes, like I’m a monster for
Mitchell King is a runaway witch living in Kansas City. His work is informed by contemporary Queer Culture and a longing for the dead.
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