Author: Lena Melillo

Lena Melillo writes on Twitter and Tumblr. She has published several zines titled piss poor, fling, and my mine my.

don’t leave me alone

I don’t remember the last time I had an adequate idea. 

most days I sit on my bed, shove my hand down my underwear,
absentmindedly run my fingers through coarse pubic hair and
“the more the mind has inadequate ideas, the more

it is subject to passive states”

my thoughts come to me only in fragments,

like the way the hot guy from the coffee shop walks— 

his arms heavy at his side and his steps

more vertical than horizontal. he’s too old for me.

and Spinoza’s conception of God is bullshit, but

I’m not smart enough to know why.

I shove over salted trail mix in my mouth littering almond skins
in the folds of my sheets as I watch

another episode of a tv show I hate or maybe I like it.

today I got jealous when a boy talked to a pretty girl,

even though I didn’t know either of them.

but she’s prettier than me I think
and I think
 my too pink lipstick was smudged

when I ordered coffee from the woman at the counter

a pullout couch is not a bed

you make me want to burn my lungs
you make me want to
spread my dusty fingers wide and
spit at the sun
paint my skin blue
and my insides black
bruise my knees
and fill my cheeks with blood as
red as your eyes’ whites

that morning
I got a sunburn from the light that entered
through your window
light so bright
our skin became pools of white:
overexposed
so I could see eddies of pink particles
swirl from your tongue
wrap themselves round my neck
settle into the intersections of our bodies

my// mine  // m y

HE WRAPS HIS THUMB AND INDEX FINGER AROUND
MY FINGERS AND BRINGS MY HAND CLOSE TO HIS FACE
“i love these,” HE SAYS
STARING AT MY FAKE NAILS, PAINTED YELLOW,
LONG AND SHARP,
HE SAYS IT AGAIN,
“i love these” AND PLACES MY FINGERTIPS AT THE
CROWN OF HIS HEAD SO I
GRAZE MY NAILS ACROSS HIS SCALP AS CURLS OF
TOO BRASSY BLEACHED BLONDE HAIR
FIND THEMSELVES TANGLED IN THE ROUNDED
SPACES BETWEEN MY FINGERS
AND HE LEANS HIS HEAD AGAINST MY HEAD
AN IMPERFECT INTIMACY //////
A CLOSENESS WITH NO CONNECTION

HE TAKES OFF MY TOP
“i’m usually so good about no sex on the first date”
“i’m usually so good about no sex on the first date”
“i’m usually so good about no sex on the first date”

inversions

some days the membrane between
myself and the sky feels thinner.

on days like these, my skin turns pink and hot and I feel too much.
your touch becomes urgent and I try to swallow your fingertips.

the veil of skin and silk does not become clearer in its thinning.
instead, cloudy and opaque, the cloth I cannot take off blinds me,

clings to my dampened skin and fills my mouth,
as I inhale your smoke and dust and fiber.