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Joshua Jennifer Espinoza | Electric Cereal

Author: Joshua Jennifer Espinoza

Joshua Jennifer Espinoza lives in Riverside, California. She is the author of i'm alive / it hurts / i love it. Follow her on Tumblr and Twitter.

wind poems

i am saying i
and walking up some hillside
where my body becomes wind
and i love wind and i am so happy and sad.
i would live another year if for no other reason
than to feel it again.
i believe in ritual.
i listen to myself in the car with the window
halfway down. i imagine i’d fly out
and tumble down the road like a scrap of trash.
i’d be the cutest piece of trash in this city.
instead i wash my hands and train my voice
to sound like soft gusts against cold glass.
i push a lawnmower over my chin.
i paint my face with white and red and white
and more white.
i draw black lines to highlight separation.
i pull my body inside out and fall in love
with the feeling of not dying.
all of this labor is like some kind of prayer
to prove i deserve to exist in these spaces
to prove i deserve to exist in space
to prove i deserve to exist.

it is quiet in the morning.
i am female-bodied.

last night’s air is still
inside the trees.
a loud clap of thunder
from earlier this month
is stuck in the window.

i dress myself with
a large paper bag
and go outside in the wind.

nothing happens.
i shudder
and break into pieces
but nothing happens.

you come out and find me
alone in the grass
covered in a purple rash.

you call me lacking
and kiss me with the words
that erase me from existence.

everything i’ve done
comes from a place of dying.

two poems

the clarity of my feet makes itself known.
it’s 12:12 and light is coming in.
i feel magical whenever i exist.
i probably should not exist, but i often do exist.
wow. wow. cool.
smoke and dust pour out of me every day.
i keep going.
songs that make me cry are gloves.
my hands go numb in the air.
i breathe on a regular basis and it doesn’t matter.
all sorts of bodies paint themselves through time.
this is all to say i am in love.
this is all to say how far i am.
this is all to say colors in every direction.


my face bashed in and the smell of plastic.
i am pretty.
i am so pretty.
look how pretty i am with god slowly drifting
out of my heart like dry ice
under a ceiling fan.
it’s 1993 in the tips of my fingers again.
it feels so good.
i dream of rapture.
i dream of war.
i dream of my mouth forming a blanket
around my most secret girlish thoughts.
i learn to become small
under the shadow of what love i know.
it’s always almost christmas here.
the mountains never stop moving even after we’re dead.
i think about everything forever in the light of that.
it doesn’t hurt.