LETTER

Mitchell King

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

           enjoying it.

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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