the women on the radio are lying to us. i picture them sitting in a recording studio somewhere in new york or los angeles or chicago / bubble gum pink lips & long
sharp nails that could tear through the fragile skin of my wrists. when the nurse in powder-blue scrubs comes back to pull the blood or morphine out of my veins,
i hop off the stool and roll down my shirt sleeve. thanks, but not today, i think. i remember this part, a 2012 summer morning & i’m in love with the boy next door. his
teeth are biting into my wrists, and i’m letting him because i love you sounds too much like goodbye / because there are gunshots firing in the background & i don’t
care enough to check whether he’s dead yet. the woman on tv is holding my heart in her left hand, reaching out to me with her other one / buy one, get another
free! / what does it matter when every bit of kronos’ soul rests in this pill bottle? take your hands off my wrists, i say, you can take me home when these broken records finally stop playing.
Maitreyi Parakh (she/they) is a teenage, Indian-American bisexual poet from Seattle, USA. In their spare time, they enjoy creating obscene amounts of oddly specific playlists, researching their latest obsession, and making far too many Ocean Vuong references.