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Kate Litterer

MISSIONS

 

 

Another thing that makes me qualitatively sad is

keeping something way past rotting.    

A soppy to-go cup and what kind of person

keeps rubbish to pet? So a BIG THANK YOU

FOR THE INTERNET, GOD

cuz I depend on stalking my exes. Thank God

for mutual Facebook friends cuz I need to

look at their muscles on my iPhone

at bars and the library. Feelings PICKLE

IN MY HEART SAC.

 

People who are thinking about killing themselves

need their friends to throw them a party

themed: COMFORT FOOD and ruminate

on good memories. THE SAD PEOPLE

MIGHT CHANGE THEIR MINDS.  

If I was gone another person would have to do

all the work I do for other people.

While I am here, I want you to whip me into

a buffable and shinable statue of a famous

and respected WOMAN

like Hillary Rodham Clinton.

 

-

 

HOOK

 

 

I COUNT MY GRIEF FIRST: I am qualitatively sad

cuz old people eat alone in shitty restaurants like Panera Bread.

I thought I was POSH when one opened in the strip mall

between my high school and Walmart. I was so MINIMUM WAGE

I had just U-Hauled with a 24-year-old woman who would go buy me soup that ate

through my bowels when I got out at 3:00 so I did what any high school lesbian

would do I quit all my extra-curricular activities

I FELT LIKE A LITTLE GIRL FOR THE FIRST TIME then I moved to college

and we broke up WOMP WOMP.

I am so sad that Panera Bread was right by my college campus and

the chicken on the Caesar salad tasted like

TOOTHPASTE

YOU DON’T HAVE TO JUDGE ME I WILL DO IT MYSELF

I went to school with all the working class and a thousand die in Philadelphia every

day or as the PRIVILEDGED KIDS called it Filthydelphia

it looks so gross when you zoom in

I JUDGE PREEMPTIVELY; MYSELF FOR KNOWING

I WILL JUDGE ME AND FOR PROTECTING MY RIGHT TO BEAT

MYSELF UP I JUDGE YOU.

 

-

 

SAY WHEN

 

 

A group of ladies reading vagina poems.

Scene: touch my fashion show

I baked you a cake

shhhh check out the mood lighting

I wore my nasty panties

I shined my hips I washed my hair

 

This one is called

PUT YOUR

FAT FINGERS UP MY SKIRT

 

please?

 

 

CUT to me furious

stilting on hard calves in need of massage

my hair is dirty, it smells like old clothes + taffy

oh my it is sexy when a queer woman bites her nails

down to the bloodcomingout

 

it’s a hard job to hurt out of revolted love.  

 

The lights in my queer bar don’t have eyelids.

I bolted them to the ceiling before you came.

What do you call a group of queers

in the Midwest doing nasty love?

 

A) reinforcement

B) one’s on deck watching out

C) we have to take turns sucking face

D) who gives a fuck what you think

​SHE’S SO HOT I KNOW RIGHT?

 

because I love you I will not kill myself

 

 

When I call myself a fag, you wince.

I name myself a rat, I’m poor it helps me think

gooder. I will be your sexy rat whether you like

or no.

 

How do I know when to say when?

 

​WHENWHENWHEN I walk

 

say parking lot say graduate class say clinic say

bills say sweat say despair say bat your eyes

say my eyes under batting are my FETISH

the work boots of butch daddies

are my angels. Say my angels. Say angels. Say my name.

 

Obviously I greed

and you look so good

and you watch out for me while

you watch out for yourself.

I censor my words because I use your mouth to speak from.

Fish fist. I put words in your wet lady mouths.

I am projecting and isn’t that

so sad like an animal in a zoo?

 

 

I want you to walk on me

we should take turns

walking on each other

to make physical the inside walked-on we feel

when women bauble into gay bars in Ohio for

bachelorette parties and we stop and look up in fear

cuz I want to

slap her her her head

while you licked that petty envelope

in your sleep I wet my face

trying to lick my black eye.

 

I called my mother to tell her about you,

bachelorette in the gay bar in Ohio

I told her I was furious and she quieted.

When my lover gets angry she shakes

quiet but I will not kill anyone I will

poach in hot hot water I will wish you

barren. I leave terrified of myself.

 

 

CANNOT LOSE

 

 

If I am threatened at gun

or knife point to

relinquish my body

I will choose a part

that isn’t noticeable.

I won’t watch. I will later say

to onlookers, “It was taken from me.”

Teach lessons on how to live

without it.

Those who stop

to listen will nod,

those who pass won’t

acknowledge that

no one knows it was

ogled out of me.

Too much violent ogling

and it broke,

seeped out my pores

into rags, was licked and chomped

like ice cream. Remember

sad happens to us.

 

Can a baby be born

without a value on her body? Of course.

Something good

goes missing, gets

scribbled out by nuns

or boys

with Sharpies.

I drive past the stoplight

that before took me

to a lover’s apartment.

All streetlights matter.

 

Even I matter.

Some people look dashing

in eyeliner, these days I feel like

I am closer to my soul

evacuating to float

above my bones

black, wispy—

that’s how it happens in movies.

 

At any moment women

might have to rally

individually to lose a piece

of our bodies.

To a butcherman.

No one knows my sacrifice

except me and my bone-taker.

Tell me the difference

between stealing

and giving. I assume it’s

rule-based

and up to ranking.

I bicker as if I have always

crackled in a fire pit.

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