Dead Man’s Float

I am a poet! I am. I am. I am a poet, I reaffirmed, ashamed.

i count every breast stroke
propelling me forward
like the madman paints
his brush strokes
in shades of yellow
casting a nude woman
standing by the window
looking over her shoulder

i remember
taking off my clothes for him
and sitting on his desk
by his painting
in a room
which had no window
but my hair
provided yellow
still, he pushed me
off of it
to see better

and i kept swimming
in the ocean
the lightning flashing
dangerously yellow
webbing across the sky
without mountains to border it
the madness
sinking in
the salt water
kissing the crevices
where my yet unaltered
smoothness met
the parts that had broken open
from old to the freshest
thinking that this was
good for my skin
and then being

the woman
in his painting
looks like i used to
both of us
left it
for lightning
a yellow

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Private Bad Thoughts

Georgia Park is a poet and she loves you very, very, very much.

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