My First EDM Concert
It’s 1:20 am, and I contemplate dying. Should I do some coke and call it a day? I write a poem at a rave. Sue me. Behind the men who DJ is a screen projecting the head of Medusa. What do men know about stone? The lights go out, the people shout encore. I did not know you could encore a DJ. Later, I will eat cornflakes, and they will fill me like you never could. Now the light is red, now yellow. There’s nowhere to go except maybe. Red is dangerous, so yellow holds me. Yellow says, You are not too late. Tell me you love me, but only if you already love me.
My First EDM Concert
A man shushes me at a rave.
Crushes
It’s fun to have a crush because at least you have something to strategize about with friends. Until the crush disappoints you, and you have to inform each friend, individually, that you no longer require their input. They are devastated.
My Birthday
It’s my birthday and my sunburn has started to peel. Last night, I cried and cried. And today I wake up embarrassed. I made a toast crying at my birthday party, the day before my birthday. And then I cried more. I cried to Noah about how much I love him. I told everyone I could die with no regrets. Except for today. Today, I regret telling everyone I would die with no regrets. As though I am dying. I am not dying. I am only 24. I am turning 24 on the 24th. I am crying right now.
Botox
A friend tells me it’s cheaper to start Botox young. You begin to train your facial muscles to be less expressive.
Two Years Into the Pandemic
Everyone is dying of things other than Covid. Cancer, fentanyl, I should get a pap smear before I lose my insurance. I tell my therapist I don’t need anti-depressants. I’m not depressed, I’m just sad. On a sunny day, I receive bad news. I get diarrhea in the basement of the Williamsburg public library. Today is Saturday, and that dog looks sad. There is a war on the other side of the world, so war metaphors go out of style. I shouldn’t say I feel like death, but I want to lay my head down and sleep in this coffee shop. I asked for a London Fog, but they didn’t have the syrup to make it.
Minor Plot Holes
You should accept minor plot holes. Major ones you shouldn’t let go, but if small ones concern you, maybe it’s you who has holes. You who is scared of being too porous.
Order of Operations
I read a published email exchange between Rachel Zucker and Sarah Manguso, where Sarah tells Rachel she doesn’t want to be included in a women’s anthology because she thinks of herself as a writer first. Rachel doesn’t get this, because she thinks of herself as a woman writer or mother writer first. I don’t get either of them. My identities go in this order: Fangirl, Friend, White, Clown, Woman, Optimist, Sex Symbol, Daughter, Poet, Melting.
Quitting My Job
Soon, I will never have to open Excel again. I’ll open other things, like this can of beer, like the door for a cute boy. I’ll open my legs to someone I love. I will learn new ways of calculating costs, like how much I’m willing to share with you, if you ask. How much I’ll lose holding onto this anger, with such wind surrounding us. I’ll balance the scales. ◆
Homepage Image Credit: Input/Output (Billy Baccam and Alex Ramos), CONDENSER, Commissioned by Seismique Museum, 2020, Dominique Noelle, from Gulf Coast Winter/Spring 2024, Issue 36. 1
