Poetry by Jess Roses

minka CC




no better

it’s not better. 

i am ascetic
with heaven beyond the stars in my eyes
second to the left and straight under the radar - 
weightless, braiding daisy chains 
waiting for the sky to pour gold instead of grey. it
never came.

it’s not better.

i am the butcher of my flesh 
the artist of a craft
in love with red against the wash of empty,
playing in the plasma like fingerpaints. 
my razorblade tightrope dance -
but muses wane like myth.
in the morning light:
i am carved out, empty.

It’s not better.

i am the fire lit by a fifth and a cigarette, i am
the molotov cocktail on everyone’s lips
trading favors under the table for a kiss in return - 
what makes our reasons good enough, is this what freedom feels like? and do you 
feel it too?
but when the night ends i’m driving four friends home on 
the wrong side
of the road
teeth coated with secondhand rum and still
taking shots at how far i can go before i blow us
all to pieces. 

bad dreams turn to hungover sunlight in someone else’s 
bed. i retrace my steps until where i am
makes sense
walking backwards under the moon looking 
for a satisfactory answer, finding nothing
but hangover and more satisfaction from a cigarette
than an answer to who i am.

it’s not better.

i know the the rules. 
tie hard, slap the vein, aim true
find the blood and shoot the arrow loose. 
i learned
sitting on a toilet in a house in the desert
with someone i still care about, someone who
still terrifies me. 
a year with dope like a serpent in my veins, no one knows this coin trick;
i carry my world around with me 
in dime bags
in pinpricks
in swollen hands scraping the loose change 
from the bottom of the fountain
nickel and vinegar, cotton and copper
i drink ‘til the the water runs dry.

it’s not better.

the truth comes out in summer
and i wage war on the black tar
thirsty vengeance rising iridescent in the heat..
orange orange blossoms make me sick but i 
swallow
for something. that much is true. lilac trees shed
themselves gently and wish i could fall
like that, soft - into this small sea.
i keep changing but i never 
leave this place, what metamorphosis would break 
the chain?

it’s not better.

the list of illness fluctuates but some things are True 
and they
remain.
each week a new list of tests and hopes dashed and hopes
raising their heads from the ashes
with hands tied, the ocean beats against
the rocks and wonder which,
in this analogy,
is me. i think i know the answer but sinking
comes so easy to me, to swim 
is an odyssey not yet written.

the secrets of our pasts come out and fill empty pages, i am grateful but 
the maze runs rampant, with every question
comes a hundred more, with each solution
another reason why not, defined
by the body i swear to claim as mine, the mind
i no longer wish to fight, and the way that
chemicals stitch me together
like a scarecrow, like
a chimera.

it’s not better.

i lie on the floor and cry. i chew each bite 100 times. i take my meds
and i hate thinking about those handfuls so 
i watch reality TV and escape into the blue light.

sometimes i write poems. sometimes
i think about a history made of something else.

there is better
somewhere.

i am the brave girl
i am the thorn she pulls
i am the lion, humbled by my own warm blood
on my hands.


​

Jess Roses (she/they) is a disabled, neurodivergent, emerging writer. Her focus is the transformation of relationships and experiences with pain and the taboo. She explores how these communal experiences form and relate to societal and personal narratives within and without the psyche. She has been published in Caustic Frolic, Coffin Bell Journal, Raven Review, Grub Street Literary Magazine, and more. You can find her work on Instagram at @jessroseswriting.