Blacklist | by Hayley Graffunder

She, R, forced herself into my psyche —
into me. Smoke canopy, asking me
to list what I don’t want to do, as she
pressed me to mattress, not what I don’t want
done to me, not what I do want, not what
would break me if she did it to me. What
about all the things I could not think of
in that second you gave before pulling
the fabric from my legs? Yes, you, R, she,
it’s all the same to me, it’s always to
you when I write about my skin, how it
got stuck to yours and peeled away from my
body when you did, how it tries to grow
back under dim light, between sweeter hands.



Hayley Graffunder is a new poet whose work has appeared nowhere. Since she can’t list publications, she’d rather tell you about her personal accomplishments, including and rather limited to raising a beautiful baby cat, an ability to eat an entire bag of flaming hot cheetos in one sitting, and the curation of a pretty impressive candle collection. She lives in Minneapolis, MN with her imaginary wife.

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