for s
you’re older than me,
but it doesn’t matter.
that tree you just put your cigarette out on
is older than any of us combined -
that’s how you start wildfires,
you know:
taking ravenous girls with
hands scorned, ruddish
to streets that look the same
so, tell me:
- how
i’m supposed to find myself
when you live in the sidewalk
(swear to god,
i’ve been here
with you -
asphalt planes collapsing
into one endless street.
rowsandrowsandrows of housesbarsrestaurants.
hey,
i think we know this one)
- when
i’m dizzy
and cold
and wandering around roebling
and everything is spinning
(you, in the sidewalk,
are spinning too)
do i stumble around,
throw up in the trash can
that looks like the one
you held me next to?
or should i just go
straight for the ground.
someonewillholdbackmyhair
someonewill -
count with me until i feel whole again
flugelhorns will not announce
that i’ve arrived
here to -
drop my bag on the doorstep
(so heavy
may as well be
sopping wet)
hey,
i’m so sorry i just -
it’s my fingers they
fell off -
no don’t look.
it’s like that time i
got on your bed with the dirty socks and
i know you saw and
didn’t say anything and
i’m saying now that
i guess i
want you to
just look at me,
not my fingers,
the way you ignored my
dirty socks and
told me i
was pretty instead
-
Madeline Langan is an undergraduate architecture and creative writing student at Pratt Institute, based in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has appeared in Pratt's literary magazine, The Prattler. She can also be found modeling tiny houses, rereading Wuthering Heights, watering her plants, and on instagram @maddie.langan.