Let me hear you say, "Hey Miss Carter".

Say hey Miss Carter.


Tell me I'm a wreck. Tell me. Tell me all about my blog and my writing and the things I've never told anyone but the internet.

Tell me about your dutch oven burns. Tell me I should settle down, make the bed. Tell me, Alis Priddy, tell me about self-recovery. Tell me the level of my sins. Tell me, Peter. Mckeller is it? Tell me this. If I hold your hands, will I feel the trembles of the psychos? Because when you hold mine, I can make your shudders stand out against the skyline and you'll tell me I'm a wreck.

Hey Jackie. Yeah, Kennedy's girl. Tell me I'm a wreck. Tell me about your state of fabricated distress and the secrets of your midnight trains. Tell me I'm the Marilyn, I've Monica Lewinsky'd out of grad school. Turn out the lights when you go to sleep alone and tell the walls, "Miss Carter's a wreck".

Tell me Dean Wolfe. Tell me about your bleeding red, I'll show you my bleeding gold. Tell me you sang to the slabs and tell me Alaska is running. I'll quit and you can tell me I'm a wreck. I can take it. Rothko, tell me about your haircut and sunny-side-up and dying on the Titanic with me (honestly I don't know what that means but I bet you've seen the titanic and now you'll think about sketching me and I just gave you that image, I know I know, I'm a wreck).

Tell me I'm a wreck. Tell me that my poems are trouble and go to extremes. Tell me that when your mother died, she didn't make her bed that morning. Tell me you're smug with my misadventures. Lay it on thick and tell me, tell me I'm a wreck.




Diamond fangs,
Miss Carter