Tag Archives: Mia Donaldson

Smoke Signal

Midnight: the constant

anniversary of your

nails in my

forehead, my knees

skinned in the

mosh pit by

the blade of

another body,

the hotel shower

is occupied and

the wet sheets

can’t stand my

touch; I’ve been

thinking about sonic

confession, about the

halved moon coming

out lavender and

you somewhere in

Ohio, keying cars

and losing voices.

When I return

to campus, daisies

are growing from

your bong in

my window, a

sight I deemed

an omen when

you pulled the

King of Wands

and my hair,

and the greens

and browns burst

then bloom; bruise

became my first

name the moment

you spoke it.

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Mia Donaldson is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo majoring in English and political science. She enjoys cities, gory literature about horrific women, chai, and making everything into a poem.

the sacrificial lamb attempts assimilation

after Charles Bukowski

too soft

too smart

too much

to worship

in the shattered hands

for whom i repent

laughter, or fear.

(then)

strangers with broken

noses followed me

through your field;

i found virginity,

a gleaming tin can.

(now)

your footsteps bark behind mine:

cheap and wiry, sloppy and devious;

i’ve learned that loneliness is born

inside murderous guts and dead mothers.

i remain, afraid,

suspended,

molded.

(today)

men are not good to women.

men are not good to women.

men are not good to women.

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Mia Donaldson is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo majoring in English and political science. She enjoys cities, gory literature about horrific women, chai, and making everything into a poem.

tetanus

we saunter through

the suburbs i wish to be reborn into,

glass rattling in our pockets & purses. she is the only one who knows i hate my mother,

yet she cares very little.

 

what i think of her now doesn’t matter.

under that blue evening we are

a single thing, 

jangling with adrenaline 

as it passes through summer-glazed yards. 

 

it trespasses, briefly. 

my shoe seizes the fence—

i dive, retrieve—

skin catches—i swear i have tetanus.

 

someone i swore i could love had a needle driven through their arm two weeks ago. i

waited by the phone as if they gave a damn, as if my digital affirmations would release

them from some divine bacterial will.  

my own scratch is long, thin. deep as an eraser shaving. i nurse it like a bullet

hole, tear through her cabinets to find bandages for a wound that doesn’t even 

bleed. 

 

i don’t drink. she does. 

when i’m finally satisfied with my medical hand she’s vomiting 

in the kitchen sink. it is 8 p.m. & my friends surround her like apostles. 

i part the hormonal crowd. turn on the faucet.

they leave. 

 

cherry punch sinks into her mother’s carpet. 

i’m kneeling with my wounded leg as i scrub. 

the red spot turns to white. i’ve never been more proud.

 

i climb the stairs to see that someone with another.

i am not surprised. 

i am sixteen, sure yet flimsy, betting on an underlying flaw 

which will make sense of all this. that the talents i harbor 

in notdrinking & stainremoving 

will amount to a whole kind of love.

 

& some time later

i will realize that i did get tetanus;

it slithered through me that night, an internal leech, curving my hips into 

something 

worth loving, instilling in me the desire to be desired,

 

no longer craving 

a whole love but the surface of it: a pool of glass under my bare feet. 

 

they will follow me, trailing my intrigue. that someone will call me first. i will 

receive enough love to fill an open wound. 

 

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Mia Donaldson is a freshman at SUNY Geneseo double majoring in English literature and political science with a minor in the Edgar Fellows program. She plans to continue her English studies into graduate school, and can typically be found around campus reading or staring wistfully into the vast Geneseo farmland. Their interests include, but are not limited to: women, anything written by Ottessa Moshfegh or Thomas Hardy, Mitski, stompy boots, and matcha lattes.

feast

 

he waits patiently, a hound: heaving, stirring,

warming my body with contrived breath.

saliva pools where porcelain meets skin.

i am chicken liver with a beating heart and undone buttons:

nubile nightmare in crusted pink lipstick.

his plate is sterile and serene, trimmed with rope

dripping merlot along exposed thighs.

i’m twitching with expectancy, shivering

and aware of gelatin flesh wrapped in a bow—

easter dinner madonna, the icon i’ve become.

with knife and fork he dines, ignoring

the steam building atop my taped mouth,

broiling skin, like strawberry jam, nails pinching, pulling;

teeth against flushed neck, hands reaching into dry throat:

daylight surrendering to disarray.

yet i am

gamy and determined

to make my flesh useful.

i am

 a good beast.

i am

 the night in its prime

serving my lone purpose:

girl

in curls

and knee-highs,

pleasing you

while i dissolve

into the floorboards

and come

of age

into cold hands

raising body parts

like children

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Mia Donaldson is a freshman at SUNY Geneseo double majoring in English literature and political science with a minor in the Edgar Fellows program. She plans to continue her English studies into graduate school, and can typically be found around campus reading or staring wistfully into the vast Geneseo farmland. Their interests include, but are not limited to: women, anything written by Ottessa Moshfegh or Thomas Hardy, Mitski, stompy boots, and matcha lattes.

Celestial Bitch

I use stars as a talking point at parties.

Not that they’re dead, everyone knows that.

I talk about Orion and Cassiopeia

like I know them personally

& light pollution & the constellations I think I can see.

Did you know that Venus is the brightest planet?

Of course you do, but you play

into my game lest you spend

an evening with just you &

your hands.

 

I note your reactions,

bury them between my legs,

expose my rotting tongue,

force your return.

You can call me a bitch, I don’t mind.

You’re at your most attractive

when coerced into hostility,

calling me like I am

so I don’t have to call myself.

 

I revel in it,

brand myself:

bitch when asleep,

bitch when awake,

bitch when dead.

I want to be the bitch

that rocks the cradle,

the hand that slaps your previous notions,

Tuesday bitch who studies until morning

and flaunts herself at night,

 

midnight bitch,

dreary as I open my mouth

& cough myself up

like an oversized pill;

& when you look down on me

your vision will throb

with darting eyes &

upturned lips swollen

from kissing myself in the mirror.

 

My favorite bitch

you’ll think,

my favorite means to an end;

celestial bitch

who knows all the right words to say

& planets to discuss.

 

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Mia Donaldson  is a freshman at SUNY Geneseo double majoring in English literature and political science with a minor in the Edgar Fellows program. She plans to continue her English studies into graduate school, and can typically be found around campus reading or staring wistfully into the vast Geneseo farmland. Their interests include, but are not limited to: women, anything written by Ottessa Moshfegh or Thomas Hardy, Mitski, stompy boots, and matcha lattes.