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Lora Mathis

We sit in fast food restaurants at 2 a.m. while our parents are asleep. Share three orders of fries between eight people because we have nowhere else to go. At night, this little suburban hell feels like a place we own. We ride past charred hills and talk about holding shows beneath bridges.We go to the mall and do not buy anything. Some nights we drive in large groups to whatever quiet space we can fill with noise, pretend to be more friends than strangers and talk about getting out of this place. The thing we have the most in common is wanting to leave but none of us have made plans to do so. We know that would make us run out of things to talk about. So we sit over the sleeping ocean, say the same nothing over and over, and smoke cigarettes on the weeks when we are smoking. We pretend not to notice each others’ wet cheeks and never ask What happened? Only, Where you wanna eat? We can’t touch the sadness we’re all chewing on, but we save a hard plastic seat for it every night.

Little Suburban Hell, Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

lora-mathis

I suppose I want what anyone wants. To be loved. To be known. To be understood without having to explain.

What I Want, Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

something-into-something

bostonpoetryslam

I’m a moonless charcoal. A sour lover. Hidden teeth beneath the velvet. I’m here and your eyes lucky. I’m here and your future lucky. Ha. God told me to tell you I’m pretty. Ha. My skin Midas-touch the buildings I walk by. Ha. Every day I’m alive the weather report say: Gold.

Angel Nafis, “Gravity,” published in Poetry (via facinaoris)