I’m going to pick the fastest ship in our fleet. I’m going to choose the fifty best killers in the Iron Islands. I’m going to sail up the Narrow Sea all the way to the Weeping Water. I’m going to march on the Dreadfort. I’m going to find my little brother. And I’m going to bring him home.
WOMEN: please wear high heels unless you don’t know how to walk in high heels in which case stay home and softly gnaw on bottles of shampoo
also please show no less than 64.87% of your boob and no more than 27.94%
stop having arms
when people ask you to smile, blowjob them
my tummy itches make that stop
i will think of new problems for you to have tomorrow
Afraid of everything, or, the inconsiderate humor of forever
The birds have taken back their language. All of fairy
land knows it. They no longer invite themselves to perch
upon the delicate fingers of young girls, or wake us
with their longing. The birds have finally spoken finally.
It is a shame. Some of us will move to Paris, where
there are new birds. Some of us will stay and build trophies
out of little bones. When I was young I remember driving
up the volcano in Istanbul—a tight squeeze, an empty stomach.
There are no volcanoes in Istanbul. There are no long silences,
either, just the sound of backgammon being played in
alleyways and on porches, like a hymn. We’re not allowed to
have tea on the side streets anymore, because the Prime Minister
forbids it, because he is angry or in an unhappy marriage or
can’t remember what it feels like to be in college. Whatever
it is the government is doing I want no part in it. I want the
birds back. I can’t move to Paris. I can’t even move out of my
own front door without feeling a canyon open in my chest.
