Let me, says the starving girl.
She scoops from her heartstrings at the dinner table
and serves dessert.
Who is hungry when there’s so much to fear,
when there’s all the soft, supple redness
of the chest left to give?
Every night we sit around the table
and gorge ourselves sick on love that is not our own.
The starving girl says,
this is how we make a home.
What is a glass, a bottle,
a throat and belly burn
in the wake of all this cold water?
If this is a rescue,
which one of us is in distress?
I digress, regress, remiss, dismiss,
it’s just that the way the sun rose this morning
looked more like opportunity than light-scour.
My love, a burden,
and you, the witness,
and we, and we,
swallow down the burn
as if it makes us
am kennedy, “Solidarity”
Let it go, you know,
that woman has never tucked you
into anything so safe as a bed.
She said, i love you,
but that’s not what she meant.
The cement in the bottom of your heart
means that sometimes you
sink faster than you swim,
but then again the brine
tastes better than tears,
better than all the fears
she read you as bedtime stories.
You’re a bad buoy but a good sailor,
a turn of tides that would
make a grown man weep
could he see how carefully you keep
your head above water.
There are no hand prints around
my throat anymore,
but the plate is full
of old bones hoping that
I’ll still choke.
am kennedy, “alter/altar” (via siilentiary)
Reach your hand across the band of your ribs,
squeeze until you feel them groan.
In the years alone,
there was nothing to hear but the spider lies,
the boozy, druzy way
your bones creak to rise.
Smear your eyelashes against the sheet
and imagine you are complete, warm, safe.
Speak back through memory
to the you who needed it most.
Believe this ghost who continues to say,
you’re okay, you’re okay.
am kennedy, “The Longest Reach”
The perfect girl is an illness,
needless, and cotton-candy thoughtless.
She says, yes, it’s fine, okay.
With a laugh like an empty box,
Schrödinger’s girl is both
dead and alive,
existing only the moment
you need her.
The perfect girl is a hollow space,
ready to be filled,
ready to be discarded,
And what a pretty way to die,
slowly in sinched-waist-inches,
and then all at once
on her thirtieth birthday.
am kennedy, “The Hollow Women” (via siilentiary)
Tell me I am made up of more than fears,
that when I run it is toward and not away from,
that these are nerves like
jagged wilderness, not electrocution.
I don’t want to be a victim,
a softness, a shatter.
An open wound.
Tell me how to pull the lion out of
my rib cage and set it free,
how to dig out all the bits of me
that still shake like unsettled teacups.
Tell me I’m not a tragedy,
not a comedy, not a lonely
too afraid to put her heart where
her mouth is.
If I bleed let it be from my own lips,
from the quake of standing the gained ground,
and swallowing the
knots and second guesses.
I don’t want to be what you see
when you think potentially.
Tell me, tell me, that I am already
who I’m supposed to be.
am kennedy, “you have so much potential” (via siilentiary)
Pocket watches and cold stars,
you are not all the things
you have been given,
please put them down.
In the leftover rooms are
bone sliver and bruisy rings,
ghosts of lovers past.
How many beds
must you abandon?
All but the last.
am kennedy, “Hoarding”