by Gabby Mijalski-Fahim
I asked the maintenance guy if he could hear the hum in my room
to which he suggested
Our sound frequencies differ
This noise will follow you like the moon stalks a car.
I paid a psychiatrist for a clue to which she prescribed two hundred and twenty milligrams of pharmaceuticals dressed as new beginnings. I said
I refuse to believe that grease does not leak
from my head and rot the wall when I sleep
or that my friends don’t search for a switch
on my torso each time they embrace me
or that my words cannot cause wildfires from the matchstick
I call an uvula who teases a tongue that mistakes every sip of cider
for the evanescence of teenage love
When did she begin confusing family reunions for interrogations,
fingers for fishing lines
dangling sharp hooks with seductive colors.
About the Author
Gabby is a 23 years-old cat parent, queer poet and karaoke aficionado who lives, breathes and works in the somber state of Oregon. Her work is featured in Passengers Journal, Tempered Runes Press, Cathexis Northwest Press, Maudlin House and The Dillydoun Review.