Frances Jackson
Journal Entry #26
my back hurts like an old lady
this morning. last night,
i stayed up till two in the morning like
a teenager, like
someone excited to live, like
going out at night, fake eyelashes glued, like
little white tendrils that sprout from old carrots
in the back of a bag.
i wonder
who i will meet here
in this cold, damp dark.
in my small room,
futile stretch; shrink:
a child’s stupid plastic
reduced in the oven
to be left at camp worst-case
or stuck on the fridge best
one day—always, always—
to be thrown out
amid the rot.
—Submitted on 04/28/2020
Frances Jackson is a queer doctoral student in the Southeast. Her poetry has appeared in the Eunoia Review.
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