Claustrophobia By Raquel Isabelle de Alderete


you kiss him on the mouth or on the upturned curve of his jaw or in the hollow point where his throat meets his body and you think of when you were sixteen and in love with the city and how if you could, you’d be a rainstorm and chase yourself off into the wilds of new countries

but you are a twenty-something with no money and a backpack of family trouble and a life that isn’t going the way that you wanted and a sick feeling in your stomach and lately all of the boys have started tasting exactly the same and every book reads the same way

you wake up in new sheets or new skylines or new shoes and it doesn’t solve the deep cracks in you – but aren’t adults supposed to have their shit together isn’t that why you don’t want to call back your father isn’t that why it’s okay that you can’t find your heart

you kiss her on the mouth or on her hipbones or on the bruises of her knuckles and you think of when you were fifteen and believing in a future where you were all put together and you think to your younger self: i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry, i’ve let us both down, haven’t i

and it’s so easy to pretend nothing’s the matter if you fill up your head with less important puzzles, if you walk yourself through romances and parties and pizza calories instead of wondering where you’ll be by the time that everything catches up around your feet, it’s easier to buy a bottle of whiskey than to tell her your secrets, it’s easier to smoke weed than to make an art piece that actually lingers, no,

there are those of us who are runners but we never quite got our feet under us

tonight we make a quiet prayer to the moon: don’t let me die in this town, not here, not where nothing moves

By Raquel Isabelle de Alderete

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