i got a nosebleed on my way out of the bay. serpentine in kind, in the fast lane speeding from and to oblivion with blood on my face, a slow trickle over cupid’s bow, one hand on the wheel.
400 miles north, and 400 miles back, on a hunch. on a losing streak, asking for trouble. it’s a hunger, this hunt, knowing more than i should. knowing i’ve got hopes i can’t stand to abide, four times cursed with knowing every abnormal thing to say. orders of secrecy only beget wistfulness, more yearning to be explored. the implied phenomena of distance found often in the compartmentalized misery of growth.
my handkerchief smells like cider and coffee in the morning, and amicably, nothing like you, except for the salt that rises from the depths of my throat, constrictor panicked at 80 miles an hour idling and slowing, to merge, to move and grow against radio silence and kimdracula.
Milena Bee is a chicane poet and mythologist. They've been published in Giallo, Beestung, Mineral, and Sad Girl Review, amongst others. They're also the co-editor of All Guts No Glory. When they're not at home with their family in Los Angeles, they're usually planning their next road trip. IG: @beenymph, Twitter: @mildrangus, website: milenabeeartistry.com.