Mary Montezuma

The poetry was once in motion. Now, only aging.

Every day there is no ultimate revelation, only interesting and less interesting ways of coping with the yawning void of alack.

We want an escape. We want to escape this body, this feeling, this gravity, this personal history and burst into the world where everything is right. Give us purity. Give us utopia. Give us perfection. Give us our ideals!

We’re ghettoes of fat, chemicals, and pixels

Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.

i don’t have ever enough memorabilia to soak the void full

I hear, “white girl, come here, why you so scared?”

I’ve been in a million relationships. I’ve been an infamous cheater. I was always very loyal until my first, long-term, boyfriend died of drug overdose.

I mean, wake up to reality. This is male sex.

I’m stuck on repeat.

The defeat oozes through every atom of my being (my body).

I am like a character in The Sims, this is all so automatic, some man up in the clouds is controlling my body.

True despair is staying alive.

Hope. Forward. Nah, we’re all just dying animals.

This is noise.

The feeling is taking over my whole mind like the darkness canvases the sky at dusk.

This isn’t my body. This isen’t my decision. There is a satellite underground, I’m the proxy.

I have no one on my side. Sunday night at work, we get drunk, I make out with Thomas. But I’m Mark’s girlfriend? I’m probably Ben’s girlfriend too. I don’t even know who these people are. They’re all just a blob of male to me.