afterlife

i just can
not afford you

i get a grasp
on     my projected
suffering

know the raw
      syncopations
of my acceptive self

the body    you know
is a site
of opportunity
when    angled
correctly

gut check―
these are
my       “genuine” “feelings”

how to
      mention
the metaphysical
without wanting
to tape
the mouth of it

how to
tape
the mouth of it
then watch
the mouth    
        become it

hello    mother life force
i’ve had
a “psychedelic” “experience”

you are not
interested      in me

you are
interested      in my shadow

how costly
it is
to need nothing
want       no one
incessantly
as i do

the        dull
ontological
ache
of my sexual capital
enacted

no                        my sorrow is erotic
no              my fantasy subverts itself
no      my afterlife    is not a product
                        of your enrollment

i sweat myself
like         a loving dog
cum on the shampoo
towel              
         and it’s
         ecstatic

my siren      my affection song
       my coinstar at the
                   corporate rave

i encountered
in       all corners
of my mind
some ephemeral       
             past self
  i tried to make       
  fantastic

you text me      “i feel it”
  and the negation goes
dis-
solving

i get a grasp
on     my projected
suffering

and without     turning
instinctively
i know it’s
you

lucifer bitch

to dilute

corporeality

i go real

hysteric

hacks over

the sink

edging

the manic

instinct

i wanna

touch

your face

but depression

detests

anything

with a size

or shape

so instead

i inhabit

your body

as an

electrical signal

love you

like a time

of day

when i sell

myself

on the internet

i feel lucid

when i buy

myself

on the internet

i feel lucid lucid

i know

what

you would

say

regarding

moralism

shut up

you lucifer

bitch

flash

if you entrust
me a task make
it opulence

i flash upright
wake a smile
in nighttime’s
gentle heat

i guess i was
i guessed i was
          “emoting”

in memory
non-ecstatic
only certain
social
exemptions
are allowed

i made
obsession
of your promise
and that’s
why
i had to call

i obsessed
myself
with obsession’s
promise
and that’s
why
i had to call

before
i could
guarantee
action
i had to
establish
a pattern
of wanting

before
i could
establish
a pattern
of wanting
i had to
guarantee
a legacy
of emptying

the problem
with your
future
is it casts
a shadow
on this
living

like cut
the light source
drain the flowers

i’m sorry
for the things
i said

i went
for a walk

and now
i feel
better

Ivanna Baranova is a Slavic-Latina writer and photographer based in Brooklyn. She is the author of CONFIRMATION BIAS, forthcoming from Metatron Press in 2019. Her work has appeared for ÄLPHÄ, glitterMOB, Montreal Review of Books, NTS Radio, Peach Mag, Poetry Is Dead, VICE, and elsewhere. Find her @internetfantasy.