“All My Exes Hate Me”, “You Invited Me to a House Show But You Know I Cant Do This” and “He Died Listening to Lo-Fi Hip-Hop”

All My Exes Hate Me

it’s a big gross world and

i don’t know what it wants from me

close my eyes

listen to lo-fi remixes of brazilian disco hits

beats hit like waves

and everything smells so salty

i am so damn salty

the sun set early tonight

and i almost forgot that it was fall

i broke my pinky toe by walking into his futon

the last thing he said to me was

“you’re never single for long”

it is so true and so tiring

bulldoze through massive mental roadblocks

until i think i’m on my street again

my broken toe has turned purple

and i like to show it off as a party favor

the boys love it

You Invited Me to a House Show But You Know I Can't Do This

I like to imagine that you live in a dirty little house filled with artists and gear and paint and

a chores list on the fridge that no one ever follows –

and that the living room is lit with thousands of Christmas tree lights.

You have never seen your couch in the natural sunlight

and honestly, you don’t want to.

I like to imagine that you have a small bedroom, mattress on the floor.

You pull me in and close the creaky wooden door and

the first thing I see is a pile of your dirty clothes and

the second thing is a broken canvas and

the third is you, taking off your glasses

and putting them on your dresser.

Your broken window blinds rattle in the wind. It is much too cold to have the windows open.

You say we’ll heat the room up soon enough.

He Died Listening to Lo-Fi Hip-Hop

broken helmet/shattered windshield

i am supposed to tell your story

at the drycleaner

and the pharmacy

to your mother

i did not ask

to carry your will

cracked plexiglas and

your folks wondering when you’ll come home

to help them make dinner

i cannot image how it feels to be crushed

within a steel cockpit

a crumpled machine hurtling among the stars

if i did i wouldn’t be writing this

i wouldn’t be sharing your tears

your memories/you’re turning

into to an episode of a show

that i’m starting to forget

twanging echo

please grip tight these words

because i don’t want to hold onto them anymore

why am i sharing his story

i should be avenging him

but now the photos fade into separating sepia tones

my album of memories is yellowing and drying

a crispy victim of malfunction

About the Author

Miss Macross

Miss Macross (a.k.a. Sheena Carroll) is a Pittsburgh-based poet, tutor, witch, and painter. She is influenced by spacecraft, witchcraft, and personal trauma. Her work has been published in Philosophical Idiot, The Mantle, Rag Queen, and Flash Fiction Magazine.