|
7/4/2026 0 Comments Poetry By Hanna TawaterJason Popesku CC
Dear Amphetamine, you ask what I’m thinking and this time I don’t say nothing but vomit the string loosely connected trajectory of thoughts “little butterfly brain” you say affectionately but that’s wrong whispers of delicate wings do not land here my thorax is not soft, rather a temple catching every echo discordant chorus in fractal kaleidoscopic static seeping through every crack every bone my thoughts were so loud paralytic body constantly abuzz above a suspended scream screaming shut up shut up shut up to give rhythm to chaos some control over tempo it’s a hard meditation to maintain I couldn’t hear in my mouth sometimes I wonder if this is why my parents were addicts were they trying to quiet their own screaming? trying to drown out ours? reluctance to diagnoses replaced with dull shouts thud of bodies against walls fists against a sallow cheek bruised and vacant eyes these softer sounds something to focus juvenile insomnia later, your heavy palm long slender fingers elegant and warm on my chest stills the vibration of strings you calm the shrieking bugs inside me I say, you say: are the bugs in your mind or spirit they’re in my body, everywhere I am one thousand cicadas shaped like a woman and I’ve been tired for one thousand years Hanna Tawater is the author of the poetry collections VOID (White Stag, 2022) and Reptilia (Ayahuasca, 2018). She completed her MFA in writing, with focus on interdisciplinary poetry, at UC San Diego. Her work has appeared in various publications, both online and in print. She teaches writing and project-based learning in San Diego, where she lives with entirely too many cats.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
July 2026
Categories |
RSS Feed