by Lucy Bishop

Each time I try to speak, the urge to shout about the past rumbles
in the back of my throat, growling
Pacing like a tiger in a shrinking cage
Trying to compensate, a sort of mental pissing contest between myself and myself.
I am going to die in this body
And it is not even mine
I’m at a restaurant and the waitress
She’s pretty
She asks for my order
I want to tell her about the time I vomited in a neon 7-Eleven and a cockroach the size of my fist
drowned in the mess and how
Part of me is always screaming because along the way,
Somewhere in that puddle of bile and grime
I think I gave up something that might’ve been important
But I can’t remember what it was and
We all vanish over the years and
I am trying to vanish so fast
No one would think I was ever here at all
But each step I take leaves scorch marks
My boots are burning
They are the only part of me that can be angry without hurting someone
&&&&&&&&&I only wear them on Sundays
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&I am hardly ever angry at all
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&Six days out of the week.
&
&

Lucy Bishop  

Lucy Bishop is an undergraduate student at the University of Oregon. She writes poetry between classes in fractured pieces that come together every few months.

Artist: Lucy Litman
Words: Juansen Dizon