Something bigger than the sky
threatens to swallow me up
In a pixel shaped box, is dwelling
a red lipsticked girl who yawns a lot like me.
I want to melt and be liquid in my own way of moving.
Something like the moon; a heartache swallowed,
and the sirens on the street always seem to scare me.
Blue and red, stood unblinking the
sway of citrus trees.
Fizzle me into my skin like one day they’ll be for me,
like I am the people it happens to. And I know what they mean: like I am bad, and one day you might be able to see. Fangs overgrown, and a hop in my step. Baring my teeth like they glow pink.
And purple in my glory,
my teeth reigned in while a fish
in the inside of my heart wiggles around,
A halo over the graveyard; you sigh, and slight touch,
The glimmer of pearl in a mouth plush and yawning
when you can feel your own heart thumping against my chest.
Mellow paint chills the wall, you come unglued and undone.
A red thread spins around us as though we were in orbit.
The train passes by in the velvet of night, a door creaks open in comes the phantom.
cleo-paulo (they/them) is a makeshift almost, kind of artist picking up words, pieces of string, trash, glitter and memories to put together in order to form a messy sort of confessional communion; they are eighteen and live in the secret corner of the world in california’s grassy ol’ valley from where they derive much hope