𝐒ρ𝔦𝕥𝓽𝔦Ň𝓰 Ꭵ𝕞คᎶᗴ

i cannot name these feelings
for myself. messy eyeliner. wings
of white birds. migrated
lip filler. i taste salt
skin and think of my skin as i
inhale each sweet pulse point—
neck, wrist, wrist, thigh, thigh—
i like those who look like me.
i don’t know what that means.
so i dance with my head
tipped back. i break my neck
through smog
to see stars. i open
my mouth to acid
rain.

Liza Rose is a poet from rural Pennsylvania now living in New York City with her barn-born orange cat, Chai Honey. She received her MFA from NYU’s creative writing program. Her work has been published by, or is forthcoming from, EcoTheo Collective, Academy of American Poets, Mississippi Review, West Trade Review, Apricity Press, among others. You can find her watching a horror movie or a nature documentary, or at lizarosepoetry.com <3