[Content warning: suicidal ideation]
the meds make my spit electric.
live wire between two mouths or my head and the bathroom floor drool pooling like a delta.
how mama taught me
good girls water growing things
but being good won’t make the flowers bloom in january.
if i cut my own cord
i am the doctor, the doula, the reaper, the reaped—
i delight in simple pleasures / like a pill’s sugar coat / the full chromatic range of my friends’ laughter /
sweet sap / the way bodies divine their own stickiness when we’re dancing to rico in a pink pink dorm room;
i forget again.
for someone who wants to die, i sure am bad at it.
see, the trick is to imagine you are your mother-friend picking your head off the bathroom floor /
to be bad at remembering / bad at / oblivion / to be a scaredy cat / to be bad at
to mother your body / / to trick the mirror
/ to have a package arriving on a thursday in february,
one you have to sign for
this record you always wanted to dance to.
Diana is a twenty-one-year-old playwright, filmmaker, and poet writing about ghosts, mothers, and the beauty of being (still, present, alive). They're thinking about art as a medium for community healing and imagining the liberated futures we deserve. They can be found navigating snack aisles at 2 a.m., trying to get a good deal on gummy bears. • Photo by Kimberly Batdorf