Big Girl Beds

Big Girl Beds
Hygeia by Klimt

Hygeia by Klimt

1. One old soul,

carries the new in its beak.

Two old souls,

and the cardinals droppings,

the hidden mouths they flirt to feed.

A speck among the white blossoms

growing into petaled puddles

to try and not fall below

the tree’s linings.

A street of rivered vomit,

they hold wing-ed,

their feathered thumbs entwined

to keep dry,

like me.


2. Handled thigh

among a humid cold.

I thought in tricks,

accommodating your dead arrival.

It’s been 7 years in our tongue’s calculations,

you pushing me here to be a part of the slit

through his hair.

A watering hole,

a landing pad,

a place many fingers must slowly reach around to.

This structure is larger than my determined mass,

the rooms grow nostalgic before the past gains recognition.

Handled thigh,

I try to let that hold me.

Handled thigh,

I felt touched for the first time in the way

of not ever

threatening what

I cannot produce.


Life tree, by Klimt

Life tree, by Klimt

3. Left alone are the cigarettes,

a forgotten stain,

the canvass in winter’s first breath.

I breed in the guttural burn of a stranger’s chest.

The madman, I am,

a booze hound for vacancies,

a florescent shine to the face,

I did not recognize you today.

The last time paint lingered on skin

was before the haunting awareness the eyes make

while sketching unanimated objects.

They make creation together,

make them faint together,

the dance they make,

before this madman, I am,

told me to wake.


4. The possession of the handicapped

the bulbous bruised.

I give myself the fight back against his frightened sickness.

His easy tears somehow the forgotten instigations

my body makes with imminent pain.

You pain me

so I place you

behind sprains and old injury made to heal on it’s own.

The two times I broke your flesh,

I meant it

as it was meant to kill me,

to realize how much it hurts

watching thinness transform into your stretching skin.

As I have known

I have spoken,

as it happens,

you will too.

We break our hands on these words once again.

by Jillian Rose Krupp

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Jillian Rose Krupp converted to the philosophy of everything and nothing around 2 years ago. Since then, she believes in The Beatles, Angela Davis and sad french films. These beliefs have helped her to almost graduate with a college degree in a little over 5 years, but to spend much more time writing instead.

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