writing

i admit i have a gun

i admit i have a gun which i sometimes call a toy & other times call food & when u eat rice-r-roni you say grace but when u eat pussy u dont & when the revolution comes ull still be an orthodontist believe in free jazz in elevators but also wage labor & ill probably have 2 kill u

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Olivia Max Grace
intentionally untitled

my gender is the number of times i've been raped 
divided by the number of times i've tried to reclaim the body 
i was born into minus the dreams i have had 
where i was stardust or a tree or the rain or didn't exist at all. 
i’m made of old nails and fluorescent light
like a fixture in an absurd film about a solipsist. 
i’m some sort of houseplant,
or a loaf of bread.
anything to get through the night. 

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for julian

god gave me birds for bones
and they have come home to roost
i bruise on the inside of my mouth
tongue blooded to teeth
gums rotted soft next to powder teeth 

i am a diet flower that won't survive the winter
i am a love poem for people dying of feelings 

i am a rare squid with arms
in the shape
of what
used to be a person 

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tonsure, or: i'm in queer church aka shaving off my hair again

i used to get stuck in doorways 
now, i compulsively cut off my hair. 
not cutting off my eyebrows too is a small victory. 

the hair cutting started in college 
when my head felt heavy and 
i said that it was the hair that lay in curls most 
of the way down to my ass that was the problem. 
not so much in curls really as in the kind of matted frizz 
of someone who used body wash as shampoo. 

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i am child of no one 
raised by peanut butter sandwiches made in the dark 
dare not for jelly 
goodnight was hope for the bed not the stairs 
not the front porch 
not the floor 

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Olivia Max Grace

Sometimes in the shower i cry and remember that i have visited Portland and hated it. i think of dreams i used to have. i remember wanting a savings account. i remember or make up a memory of some beige art school and i worry about ending up selling wooden ducks in a craft shop.

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