subway tights

Ka-Thump.

Ka-Thump.

Ka-Thump.

That’s My Engorged-Heart.

You’re Hearing My Engorged-Heart. OK?

You Can Hear It From All The Way Over There.

My Blood Is Rushing Through My Body – Right.

Rushing Through My Body Like A White-Water River.

Or A Subway-Train In A Subway-Tunnel.

TIGHT And TAUGHT.

If I Flex. I Just Might…

POP.

Holding grudges against every candle. Crying about
laundry day. Ripping my tights on subway platforms; 
New York getting greedy for my blood. Not
getting my shit together. Blowing all my paychecks
on chai tea lattes, contour palettes from Sephora.
Convincing myself I need another cigarette. 
Promising my parents that I’ll see them more,
soon, tomorrow, this week. Never doing a single
dirty dish. Washing my hair every four days. 
Never replying to my emails, I know, I’m The Worst. 
Always in bed, messy bun, drawstring pants
to help the bloat. God, I want to talk the most shit
right now but I would have to change all the names,
start a new blog, go incognito. And they would
still find me. I’m drunk on bread, high
off of the aluminum in my own deodorant.
Everything is a swipe left. My sadness is always
missing the next stop, or getting off too soon,
or not getting off at all. Nostalgia is never as good 
as the real thing but I’ll bottle that shit up
and sell it to the highest bidder.
—  Kristina Haynes, “What I’m Currently Doing Here” After Nicole Steinberg