collective nouns CC
Rats on Me
There are rats in my trunk,
as I listen to the hustle of motorcycles
mowing through my ears.
I hear the time that girl with a bra
fucked him with her eyes.
Morbid, pale and breathtaking.
I stayed standing and staring
at her red hair,
whipping across sandpaper blue.
He points his finger down towards the tiles,
remembering her thighs
before slurping coffee.
Wet all over, I take his hair
and press my hips against a squeak,
as he leaves a mark on my neck.
I sprint into walls to understand what I look like,
trying to see past the smoke,
as I light torches to my lungs.
He is probably going to have sex tonight.
Jealousy hits me like an aftershock.
Plates fall off the table,
glasses spin in the cupboards.
I stay simple, sitting and watching
my insides splattering on the couch.
I trust the stuck language pushing me away,
before the jealousy hits me again
like a water balloon thrown indoors.
I jerk my head forward to my knees,
wishing the claws out of the ocean.
Screaming for a real calm discussion,
the us of yesterday sprints away.
There is no time to hold onto love
when it runs out of reason to breathe.
Hanna Pachman is a poet and filmmaker who uses writing as therapy to conquer objectification, health issues, and robot brains. Originally from Connecticut, she currently hosts a monthly poetry event, "Beatnik Cafe" and is an Assistant Editor for the poetry magazine, Gyroscope Review. Her poems appear in Fourth & Sycamore, Oddball Magazine, and Aberration Labyrinth.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.