TW: MENTION OF BLOOD epistaxis being in bed without any hand to god makes me restless, and needy and reckless. speeding in a residential area, peeking through the blinds. the implied phenomena of distance found often in the compartmentalized misery of growth. orders of secrecy only beget wistfulness, more yearning to be encouraged to pull away, grasping at the sanctity of space, serpentine in kind, in the fast lane speeding from and to oblivion going home and hiding the ache of my jaw in the drunken stupor i fake with blood on my face, a slow trickle over cupid’s bow the roof of my mouth a bruise in testament. whiskey on my tongue. an accident, an expatriation, an extension of my leather jacket cold on the nape. are you going to let me down easy? slowly, to merge, to move and grow still. i’ve got hopes i can’t stand to abide; to be so lovable and yet so soft inside suggests overripeness, and rot. except for the salt that rises from the depths of my throat, constrictor panicked. your fingers pass right through me. Milena Bee is a chicane poet based in Los Angeles. Their work aims to chronicle love, longing, despair, and more in a way which canonizes and mythologizes. This comes from their lifelong study of mythology, specifically Greco-Roman. They are the co-editor-in-chief of All Guts No Glory, a zine press hoping to one day evolve, pokemon-style, into a magazine. Find them online at milenabeeartistry.com
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