Emma Weist
Bottle Caps
Polaroids line the shelves like bottles
And are administered to my mind’s projector
And taken, slowly filling a body
Degraded by one's own thoughts
As abrasions are formed from bottle caps
Worn clothes stained by tears and ice cream
Smeared along the sleeves
Pockets Carefully filled with letters
From young lovers turned stone-faced
Murderers
As sweet icing kisses line
The clothesline and wave
like scarecrow limbs
limp and filled with nothing
but air and hay-thin lies
Of a teenage love story
It's Okay to Feel Like This
Your chest is filled with static, as if your torso is a TV
and, when turned on, black and white buzz
like flies around your foggy room.
Your head is the dam to a flooding lake,
and any pike or thought could plunge in and
cast briny water across the shore.
Your anger is a screaming tea kettle.
You are the pot and your anger is water boiling
over in clouds of white.
