DogWater

Yuh I write shit on occasion

[wahoodogwater]

[wahoodogwater]

Sister-Friend

I wonder what would become of us if we had met when we were small you would be my sister friend that I would be too afraid to touch long after the moment we  were in high school and I realized you were a woman

You would be my sister friend and we would get drunk in the kitchen I would be your plus-one to your important business meeting and you would introduce me to the love of my life; then I would call you when she cheated on me my sister-friend my sister-friend

Is the fruit only delicious because it is forbidden? for surely the inside is rotten as sin and though your lips are delicate and soft; your teeth are sharp and filled with cavities

And as the gangrene enters my throat I would whisper ‘my sister-friend’ ‘my sister-friend’

I wonder if you even saw the headlights Ford F150 going too fast  Straight and fast Straight and fast my sister friend my sister friend

[wahoodogwater]

I don't even remember writing this

I used to lick my lips, savoring every letter now I just devour; spit out words that once were just for me;

and my tongue won’t stop running my teeth are wearing hokas mile 1 you (take a gel) mile 2 they (take a gel)

You clamp your lips on my tongue 

and now there is piss running down my leg like a child in the bathroom splashing their pants with the flint sink water these Michigan words are too caustic for her or you to indulge 

yet like the foul and bread on holidays they expose and shield me in congruence  and it is superfluous and hold-me and take me away from here it is shameful how ravenously we want to leave something behind

(Please, remember the taste of my tongue)

[wahoodogwater]

In the General Vicinity of Eden

I like to imagine that there is a place of gardens and fruit that we are allowed to eat the dirt plays between our toes but does not stick under the nails there is no sin here; there never had to be

I feed you strawberries in the sunlight and the juice dribbles down your chin and onto my lips you laugh and it tinkles like the shattering of sugar glass the kind that breaks on you but doesn’t dare cut the skin

I like to imagine that in this place I kissed you and it didn’t feel ugly that if our sin was a child it would raise fruit and lambs and we would love them despite the worms hiding in the apple maybe then we wouldn’t have to find out what death was only after the heart stopped beating

[lvgvcy-deactivated20260523]

worrying is like worshipping the problem

[wahoodogwater]

Cecelia

My dearest Cecilia,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. Lately my mind has been slowly dichotomised by worms, not parasitic ones, but of the garden variety. They must have slipped in there sometime when I was wreathed in the dirt, laying in my grave.

Did I tell you about my grave?

As you well know I have been contemplating suicide for a number of years now but never have had the sack to do the deed. So I dug a grave, I lay in it and pretend I am dead. It does the trick. 

In the grave the space time gets a wrinkle

It’s like an airport, 9 am beer

Have I been here for weeks or minutes

My arms were too weak to dig 6 feet I lay in a shallow impression

I feel the earth breathe as if an infant on my mothers breast

Our ancestors called her mother earth and in almost every folk tale her husband dies

And she weeps, I wonder if one day she will weep for us, or breathe a sigh of relief

I close my eyes and I am in the Amazon rainforest, an anaconda slithers over my leg

I do not dare to breathe, lest it recognizes me and squeezes

Piranhas swim past my ears as I travel to the Sarenghetti, the sun burning my eyes through their lids.

This way when I open my eyes I can’t see the vinyl fences staring down at me in my 5x5 condo backyard.

Anyway I hope that everything is going well for you, I was sorry to receive your last letter in which you pretended to be your husband, warning me to not write anymore letters. I know you probably found the joke quite humorous but it sort of disturbed me. Please tell him I say hello, regardless.

[hyacinthsanddew-deactivated2026]

is it still a love story if you both live in the end

you’re telling me you love me and i’m saying, look:

both of our chests are sliced open; how could i

lie to you when you can see my heart beating. you’re

buying me a coke and i’m tearing up napkins, searching

for something to burn other than my wrists. let’s

go for a walk somewhere, anywhere you can find a pond

to swim in, the murky-green algae begging to be

kissed by someone other than me. there

it is now, water traced down your cheeks after god sent you a break-

up text; IT’S NOT ANYTHING WITH

YOU, I JUST DON’T THINK I CAN EVER UNDERSTAND

JUDAS. you spent that night burning all the

bibles and priests you could find til your hands were wet

with blood not belonging to you. i brought

the rags, you brought the holy water i tasted on your skin until neither

of us could think about religion or burning. and what i mean by that is nothing

holy, but i’m starting to think that could be okay.

[wahoodogwater]

Death, Taxes, and Laundry

They say that the only things guaranteed in life are death and taxes. But I think laundry belongs somewhere on that list too?

ROMANTIC SUFFERING

It’s 2 in the morning and I’m sitting at my computer, the taste of marijuana lingers on my lips like an old lover. My LEDs are maraschino red and a grown man explains to me that purple guy is just misunderstood.

I could be happy, I could make myself a cup of tea, I could wrap myself in a blanket, I could write down 3 things I’m grateful for, throw on some chet baker. 

I won’t. 

There isn’t a specific reason why, no intense childhood trauma that left me feeling undeserving of happiness. It just feels right to have that desperate pit in my stomach. Or is that my appendix?

Maybe I think it makes me cool, all the cool kids have depression or bipolar or schizophrenia these days

I wonder how life would be different if a stranger on the street had grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, saying “you are worthy of love, you are worthy of happiness, you are the pinnacle of human evolution, and everything is going to work out for you.”

Perhaps I would bake a pumpkin pie, and do my laundry.

[wahoodogwater]

Lot's Wife

If I were the wife of Lot, I would probably do the same thing

Turn over my shoulder to wonder the fate of a people misguided

A people who should've known better

A people who burned

If you gave the wife of Lot a time machine

I wonder if she would come to our day and ask with salted lips

Why was I not given a name?

And we would say, I guess we didn’t know better

[love-rem]

You will never be able to experience everything in this lifetime. So, please, do poetical justice to your soul and simply experience yourself. - Albert Camus

[wahoodogwater]

Roller Skate over my Grave

His lips tasted like clementines

Mine probably tasted like vodka

Those boy lips which were not supposed to be for me tilted up at the corners, just a little, as he skated away.

In a skating rink the traffic never stops, counter-clockwise on counter-clockwise or counter-clockwise. Until the teenager behind the desk gets on the microphone and says “Switch directions.”

It is not a good idea to come to a complete stop in the counter-clockwise roller skating rink.

I bit my lip as I hit the ground, blood mixed with vodka mixed with clementines.

Ohmygodareyouok?

Finejustfinesorryaboutthat

It’s a good thing they keep the bathrooms close to the rink.

Puke mixed with blood mixed with vodka mixed with clementines.

The porcelain cools my cheek as clementine skates enter the stall next door

I shake and hold my breath as clementine piss hits the toilet bowl

A primal part of me wishes I could be made of porcelain

But i am made of flesh and blood and I just kissed a boy for the first time

[wahoodogwater]

I’m crossing the ocean on a sailboat, a rowboat. The gull calls. The salt in my nose burns an awful stench. 

My friends under the water beckon me to a magical place, a place filled with merpeople and rainbows and chains and death. 

I spell swear words on the letter combination to Davy Jones' locker. Why didn’t he use a number lock like everyone else? You are not cool. You are not special. 

The duolingo bird soars up above and screams “hola”

I row and I think about you. And that book you wanted to borrow.

But you put it down before you got to the part where I scribbled in the margins

Seems to be the theme of us though

Hopefully you bring it with you when you leave

Hopefully I remember to buy you some gloves,

Because I was yours, and I didn’t have to write this damn poem

Your hands were never cold

But now they can’t seem to stop shivering

The bird cries “Konichiwa”

[wahoodogwater]

The Trolley Problem

The trolley problem. There are infinite variations. Pull the lever and kill a stranger, leave it be and 5 orphans die. What do you do?

 The trolley problem- you created the universe- and the trolley- you are the all powerful, all knowing creator. 

There are 8 billion people on the tracks, you say “worship me and I’ll pull the lever” are you evil?

[tuaruss7]