four poems

by Lizzie Scheader

HALF OF ME, IS HALF OF YOU, AND THE OTHER HALF, IS HALF OF SOMEONE YOU ONCE LOVED.

WE DOUBLE KNOT OUR GARBAGE BAGS, BECAUSE I ONCE SAW A SANITATION

WORKER RELEASING THE BIGGEST SIGH IN AMERICA, AND IT LEFT ME FEELING

GUTTED. TIME STOPS, WHILE IN MISERY. TIME STOPS, WHEN YOU THROW A LOAD, AND

THE BAG RIPS FROM GLASS. I NOTICE THE RATS WHO HANG NEAR MY STOOP ARE

SKINNIER THAN EAST VILLAGE RATS, BECAUSE THE VERY LITTLE THEY CAN SCORE, I

DON’T THINK THEY SEEM TO LIKE. USED TAMPONS, AND TOFU BITS, ARE NO GOOD ON

A RIDGEWOOD RAT’S MICROBIOME. BUT THIS IS ALL ASSUMPTIONS, OF COURSE,

BECAUSE I HAVEN’T ASKED THEM WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME THEY SAW A GI

SPECIALIST. WE ARE NOT AS CLOSE AS I MAKE IT SEEM, THOUGH I SEE MY YOUNGER

SELF IN THEM. MY YOUNGER SELF GOT TIGHT OVER POOR TEXTING DECORUM. MY

YOUNGER SELF WAS 3 YEARS AGO. MY YOUNGER SELF HAD MISCHIEVOUS PLANS OF

PUTTING MY SUPER-DIVORCED® PARENTS IN A GROUP CHAT, FOR REASONS LIKE A.)

CHAOS, AND B.) THAT’S ALL I COULD EVER HOPE FOR. BUT JUST YESTERDAY, I WAS

INFORMED, THAT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 13 YEARS, THE TWO OF THEM HAVE

CONVEYED A MUTUAL DESIRE, TO COPARENT ME: THEIR 25 YEAR OLD YOUNGEST. MY

LIFE HAS NEVER BEEN MORE NORMAL. MY LIFE HAS NEVER BEEN MORE GREAT.

EVERYTHING IS GREAT. I HATE GREAT.

*Originally published at Don’t Submit!

The immensity within bore.

But bound by this

level of “othering”,

know—I can conjure

something of substance.

The worrying

was coercion.

And now

there is,

a devouring

life.

I once

had sex

in a geriatric

shower chair.

It was awesome,

and fun,

and,

there was—

trust.

Does wonder equal care?

Not sure, but I’ve asked

if want gets befuddled by

cruelty,

something like,

one thousand times,

and how you,

pick up

the bruised fruit

anyway [sure, sure].

I went to sleep

thinking about the

sincerity of your

kindness,

that I actually

dreamed

my teeth rotted

from the sugar.

They fell out.

And I stood there,

with not one

mineralized

bone.

(ANI)

Briny martini’s

are just too grown

up for me.

I need to have something sweet after.

Can I lick your molars? / You spit in my mouth?

                                          Lands as sarcastic, self pity

                                          Lands like you’re a cuck.

                                          Think: hyper enjammed (totally a word) / getting broken.

Fax me,

And I’ll fax you back.

Bzzt-beep-bzzt-beep,

beep-bop-bop-bzzzt,

whirrr, bzzzt !

Incoming fax !

on my imaginary fax

machine

says something like:

I miss you

I say something back,

something something

precious,

or,

something something

cute.

Fax won’t go through

though.

It reads:

none of this

is actually

real.

Incidentally,

none

of this

was real.

Burnout.

The idle self contrasts the judgmental writer, who, beyond structure, routinely lacks curiosity, while somehow remaining hostile.

                                                                As if we do not worship the same God?

                                                                Bend our knees as they say we do.

I try to cry

while taking mirtazapine,

but it feels like

diet sweetener.

The fax machine is ringing.

But this time it says it’s just out of

ink. 

BIO: Lizzie Scheader is a New York based artist and writer. Connect with Lizzie via IG: lizzielizzzard and www.lizziescheader.com