What I Am

I am but paper, gatherer of verses— rip me rip me when I die.   Tear me tear me into mouth sized morsels. Consume me when I die; Let me exist though I may not live.   © Kindra M. Austin

A Wedding Poem

Our loved ones who’ve risen and live now in the bless-ed skies of rose gold— they beam down upon you two, as we all who breathe are smiling upon your grand unification.   This day, you’ve both chosen to tie your souls together before devoted eyes. We are all bless-ed witnesses to these oaths. We

I Breathe Still

For a minute or more, I was dead as you, as you were technically dead before the end was absolute— before your brain conceded. For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark, engrossing, on the cusp of consent. Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and they called dibs on my vital

Truth: the liquid kind

I listen to Radiohead when I contemplate killing you— I want to smash your glass and get at the inside of your meaning. Shells tell different truths— look at me. See, I’m right and tight with my plastic teeth, and painted eyes that never blink. We mislead, you and me. © Kindra M. Austin (image: Gifer)

Hi. I’m an Alcoholic. Nice to Meet You.

Hi. I’m Kindra—alcoholic. It’s been thirsty seconds since my last drink, and thirty nine years since my last confession. I turn forty in December. I’ve kissed a few girls, dropped acid once, finger fucked myself eleventy hundred times, and committed adultery with an Englishman who won’t leave me alone— my pussy is lined with gold.

Children Separated

  Children separated, howling. Maybe we should call the ASPCA.   (image: The Cut)

Numb

I buried myself by the seaside ‘neath a sky patchwork grey and sobbing. Never in life had I been so severely revered for my truths. Posthumous respect is a backhanded compliment that bleeds into my grave, cold and unimportant. Ain’t nothing much that matters to a corpse.   © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)

Last Judgement

Come on down from there, if only for a quick minute. The last time I saw you is unsatisfactory in hindsight. Retrospection is a bitch dressed in my skin— I’ve become leprous. I may not pray to God, but I do talk to Jesus. My words fall on dead ears. Christ will not come to

Anyway, Always

Thinking about it now, I’m not the least bit sorry for the hateful shit I’d said to you eleventy years ago, when I was a kid and you fucking knew better. I rescind my apologies. Not that my sorries ever meant a good goddamn to you, anyway— they were ever only as true as your

For My Truest of Loves

The day was grey-blue, echo of your eyes; sky filled up with promise of rain, and we waited for beloved petrichor. Lemon yellow and speckled black, a noble friend clasped your flaxen strands and flexed its wings. What dreams did she bring, my darling? Do you know how often I dream of the daylight that