This is as ordinary as it is harmful. It says a lot about me
that I’d mishear a lyric you bring your heart, I’ll bring my sword.
Often I tell people I’m 24. Not because I want to be still
but I keep slipping out of seasons. I’ve found a way to not
feel my feelings and it involves a surprising amount of bile.
Your mother’s expectations rode atop us like a flea market
mink coat. I meant that as an insult but fuck it sounds grand.
You left is my felling blow to ambiguity. I won’t pool this fish
bowl for gold nuggets. I feel zilch. I like words that come spit
out. Orchids are offers for grave plots, aeroplanes pockmark
skylines and transatlanticism fails somewhere beyond a Death
Cab ballad. I’m not apologetic. An empathetic heart dangles
by its own blood threads. No seducer mewls the ribcage to
tie you up. My last dearest, take dignity. Envelope this malice
in manila. In Châteauguay, junior letter-sorters are all atwitter
over postcards from our sordid sabbatical. I’m tired of scorn
by feral girls whose morning breaths perfume the pillowcases
between your thighs. This could’ve been the Gotcha moment
in our game of Sorry. But it’s a one-sided duel if your fencing
shoes are thrown over a wire and our swords are just sticky
fists of children in a sugar crash.
Lauren Turner is a Montréal-based poet and writer. Her work has appeared in Geist, Arc Magazine, Minola Review, ottawater, and Bywords. She is a past recipient of the Diana Brebner Prize and a graduate of Concordia University's MA program in Creative Writing. Follow her misadventures on Twitter: @laurenmlturner