Fuck immobility.

Fuck politics and divisiveness and apologists dressed as peacekeepers.

Fuck the world of white men.


Fuck the need for Pride,

the need for a celebration so vibrant

erasure becomes impossible.


Fuck loaded arms, deathly, bragging,

the pathetic “I’ll fuck you up” of people wielding them.

Fuck empty arms,

mothers, babies, partners ripped out of reach.

Fuck prayers drafted like business letters.


Fuck bad luck, the wrong day or moment or side of the street.

Fuck luck and survivor’s guilt and the lingering curiosity

for whether tomorrow will look different.


Fuck therapy and the gods that make it necessary.


Fuck the brilliance of storms from a protected room.

Fuck the protected room and its confines.

Fuck those who, protected, engender storms and then sleep.


Fuck me, and this bitten-down tongue, swollen and resentful and silent.


And fuck you, by the way, reading this,

or maybe just fuck the miles between us.


by Chelsea Hansen


Chelsea Hansen is a freelance musician and English graduate residing in northern Colorado. She has poems forthcoming in early 2019 for Door is a Jar magazine. In between creative projects and an 8-to-5 day job, she spends her free time walking river trails and marveling at the wide expanse of the plains.

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