Your Ish IRL

You dressed up as a detective when you were 5 years old,
fierce and feminine, feeling fresh as a damn daisy. Oh, shit!
Pls try again tomorrow. It was that easy to fail, after that
spiral of one-ply toilet paper. Fuuuck it. We were all
rooting for you. Vodka, dry shampoo, and Ariana Grande:
How much time do you need? You overslept and have
two minutes. Dawg, IDK how it ends. I just remember
the anxiety of a messy bun, two girls in similar outfits,
your parents’ garage. You can’t remember the last time
you washed your hair. That’s a personality trait, Sister.

The last day of March means that this is my last poem written from phrases pulled (in order) from the March 2020 issue of Cosmopolitan. It took some time to settle into this magazine, but it ended up being one of my two favorites—the other one being the one I started with, the December 2019 issue of Good Housekeeping. Talk about opposites!


I Sleep with a Mask

Hey! Keep it simple.
It’s 100% awesome,
the new fragrance

of the misty jungle.
I get paid to travel to
Taco Bell, my friend.

I can’t help but notice
the ferris wheel in your
bed, a song in a journal.

I’ve got my glasses on,
for once, half-watching
tonight’s coverage of

however you sleep,
your secrets, a wall,
even your couch.


What Happened?

On Instagram, nobody cared,
especially those who suspect they can
gush blood for weeks, like a second job.

All I was told was that I was just a woman
who couldn’t manage stories like hers.
A ripple effect: Imagine things getting better.

She says it’s getting worse with the shirtless
bachelor in paradise—weird and awkward,
this gorgeous girl with matching hair,

a special dress on the back of a door.
Revolution takes time, but she hasn’t
saved up enough for fresh flowers.


Show ’Em Just How Easy It Is

Fire them for becoming nonstop struggle
over the cheese. As it turns out, I’d been
a little terrible pony, able to stretch every
mood with a new dude in Santa Barbara.
So trashy—a surfer. Don’t follow your bad
tale in a back room at the tattoo parlor,
exposing a tame city. Over the years, I got
to see a bleak situation getting better.


You’re Worth $$$$

I’ve recently come into some money.
What now? I can afford designer boots,
a luxe bathtub, a jar of Nutella. I like my
snake plant, Hannah. It’s five times

your height. You live on the floor now.
You get a buzz from cute clothes.
You want to try cuddling fish.

I’m a celebrity now, with luck and
big cash flows, glam, hot, high-energy
confetti. I’m throwing it confidently,
lovingly, a little bit for myself.


I Indulged in This

Some lube, a hair band, Tic Tacs.
Pizza. I’m back, bitches: The Flamingo.
No one knows my life, garden gnomes.
You’ll just have to keep playing an original
game of golden leggings. Shit. I’m Baby Yoda.
I’m a walking before/after pic. I’m cool.
You? You’re only cute on Halloween.


Today Is Special

I’m going through emails while prioritizing on the fly,
writing a news story about the trend of sculpting
your vagina—cooler than that creepy Kanye video.
I once lived in a place where people were doing
illegal things. We’ll always treasure the days when
all of us had branded pool parties, that metallic
fanny pack of a Friday night on my couch.