You want to destroy me
with your tantalizing little riddles,
making me traverse the hells of
doubt, anguish, and helplessness?
My chest is a desert
and in the middle is a dot,
a vestige of my love for you.
You destroyed it once
with you nuclear tantrums,
poisoning the soil for a lifetime,
yet out of that dot,
the little black dot on the page in that desert—
now grows out a new life
with monstrous flesh-eating blossoms,
mutating to withstand
the most earth-shattering cataclysms.
This is my new wicked love—
take it or leave it,
for you can’t destroy it!
Antonia Wolf is a young writer and blogger (www.wolfwrites.com) from Bulgaria, currently living and studying in New York. She aspires to be recognized as a poet and playwright with an affinity for reinventing classical themes in a modern context. Previous work was published in Peaking Cat Poetry, The Fountain, and College Life (at the American College of Sofia).
My father sexually abused me.
When I got married,
I hyphenated my name.
No one questioned it at the time.
But in the middle of my parents’ late divorce,
everyone wants to know about names.
i was depressed,
and i wanted
to take a
you said you'd join me—
didn't mean i wanted
netflix and chill,
it happened before words came
to tell me how to feel about it
newly connected neurons torn apart
forever firing blanks into the microbiological air