I dreamt you dreamt mountains and me cutting myself apart kind-knees hands in the soil tabitha railed iron fisted counted sleeping stones a while inside burning as bodies do left alone too long are you home and the outer road walking could I take you there letting go was easy when the pin split and the eye caught light laughter in the next room next life listen it’s not just rain other people can hear you and the talking in tongues first hit was the longest to shake I saw lived a while with the grate of the window pressed clean and my face belonged to you then I had no place it got this way in my body shook a little through the promises scribbled numbers call at midnight want to feel again but it’s never enough Tony’s mad eyes I couldn’t tell if he hated my help so I left him there to die aren’t we ravished enough socially I withered from within lit fires because the wood was good and sharp and my lungs could take it the company was all wrong then but it’s not the worst that shreds you it’s poking at morning details left unadorned me too crawled in the window this way strong hands lifted me off the ledge by my shirt I was all rag doll to him Sunny never came home I couldn’t breathe it got heavy my skin dancing I dreamt we were never poor asked to leave smelled a little sad that room called living on the soil no shoes no light on in the distance hills swallow houses I come clean I’ve been dangling all along 7-11 smirk how we ran with no legs claimed the deep parts addled been dreaming mountains and midnight promises scribbled on my door frame bruises if you had places for them but the scars drink water and I only pretend against the grate ivy lean in I linger it never stops hurting…



James Diaz is the founding editor of the literary arts & music journal Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared most recently in Psaltery & Lyre, The Ekphrastic Review, Quail Bell Magazine and HIV Here & Now. He is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent Books, 2018) and currently resides in upstate New York.

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