the sun is out, but i am not

for every girl


and the ghost of you is stifling. it is pure

and it is honest, so how on earth could it be

wrong? the year is now. sounds from

Coppélia spread itself on the walls like

ivy, my body sheathed in bees, i reach

for the lily caught in my throat and beg

the disabling hunger, growling in the pit

of my paunch, to end. my detail is left

untouched, and so, i am dying. this is

the kind of darkness that makes existence

questionable. how could i go dead in an

instant and rise reluctantly with the

sun? at  times i am too much

effort than you’ll ever be willing to

give. and further times i trust that you

will take your time with me. until then,

my sex, an unmarked holy grail, lies

dormant somewhere between

‘i love you’ and ‘no.’ this day’s air

sits plump in my nostrils.

sweating. the smell of an

omelette, overcooked,

ejaculation from four

hours ago collected neatly

in my fingernails,

insomnia lulling, i am in a moon bassinet.

how long must I cradle this lie?

the sun creeps in, painting the floors a

glaring shade of ‘new life’ and stops

just short of me in my dazed and copper

nakedness. i know i must go, but it is

impossible to leave this room. and, to

forget you; my body, hacked and charred,

eternally trapped inside of your rose

colored sun. i am the wetness of an

oyster, alive and lapping, longing, for

what feels like the end of an era—

outfitted in my usual uniform: a lack of

emotional seasons. there are so many, and

yet, not a soul is enough. i want to

pierce myself through your black hole and

find peace on the other side. girls tell me

that happiness is a costume only

a few of us wear well. i love

you because you are a child of war born

from disproportionate lovers, and, you

also care. one day, i will taste the

juice of a divine summer in your healthy

peach. and cry when i come. i will wake up

some mornings next to you with a mouth

full of ‘sorry.’ i extend my

sincerest apologies for all the mindless

things i know i will do.



Afieya Kipp (she/her) is a queer poet and editor born in Brooklyn, NY. She is the author of the forthcoming titles, Investments in Weak Vessels (Whiskey Tit Books) and Hopefully You Find Something Meaningful In This (Vessel Press), as well as (black)Moans(wane)s (Vessel Press), which is available via Payhip and Amazon, and “conversations in the ego graveyard,” also on Amazon. Currently, she’s the founder and EIC of Vessel Press, and lives in northern New Jersey where she carries poems in her wallet. Follow her on Twitter: @AfieyaK and @vessel_press.

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