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Weather does not describe the foreplay

of having sex with the first person

who’ll give you an umbrella

and fuck you in the same sentence.

In fact, the sex isn’t even that enjoyable

but the high of being manic

is convincing enough to

believe that you came

despite being on antidepressants,

and you know how

antidepressants are

(You haven’t been horny in months).

After being fucked over an umbrella,

you run to the train tracks and

have a hysterical monologue

about the cliche of ending

your life by train and take

to your car to have a

high speed chase with

no one.

It’s thundering and you laugh

as you almost hydroplane,

hands shaking with exhilaration

at the thought of a deer

toying with it’s life just

as much as you are.

You don’t know

how you end up

on the couch the next

morning but you don’t give

a damn anyway.

Now the sun is shining

and you down your meds

with the can of flat coke

left on the coffee table.

You think back to that

shitty display of intimacy

from the night before

but it’s not enough

to kill your buzz.

You don’t even check

your account before

dropping next month’s

rent money on junk

that seems reasonable

at the time.

Sex, suicide,

and shopping sprees all

within twenty-four hours.

Your favorite throuple

until you’re greeted

with mud all over your

favorite shoes and

then you remember

you’re pissed at God,

and your mother,

and your father,

and whoever the fuck

else came before you

that created such rapid

shifts in your forecast.

Their genes got you

into this mess, and

into this mud and

into a depression

that will last

for months

until a tornado

wipes the slate clean

and you’re back in the

sex positions you know best.


Clementine Williams is a Black, queer writer hailing from North Carolina, currently pursuing a degree in social work with a minor in criminology. They are a new poetry and short fiction writer who primarily writes about Black lesbianism in conjunction with other identities.

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