The Seesaw of Bodies

The Seesaw of Bodies

A satanic voice knocks to my left,
those burgundy months,
when I was held captive in your womb.

Reintroducing myself
to the cold taste of man lips,
I feel the beauty of his forwards
backwards sculpture,
as I rest beside the scull tattoo
on his awkward, dangly torso.

Cheating on my ex-boyfriend,
I am re-harvesting the weight of my bones
through a dark wave of fast forward.

He is pulling dainty glasses from
the freezer and squeezing
oranges into my lap of fizzing wine.

Scanning my flaws in circles
across the salty water,
I run my fingers out of sadness.

And just like that, the cushions
are toasting to existentialism,
and I am in the air.

I am exposed bones with a cut,
letting the blood from your break-up call
shake out to the surface.

Like ribbons strapped to my waist
the feeling of sound comes out of my mouth.

The pleasure of undoing my skin
from your claws, gliding through
the forest of lonely onlookers.


I touch the fire beneath my legs,
without thinking of you,
just thinking of the way he reminded me,
I am still alive enough to howl.


Take Me Desperate

I sit, spitting out food at the Indian restaurant,
needing to kiss you and tangle your heart at once.

Don’t murmur your teeth,
as I twirl around your schedule.

Beeping through a chorus of mockery
my therapist is calling me to empty
five buckets of water into her wallet.

Time to whip my memory up
for every fossil of shame,
give her every last drop of guilt.

Sixty-five shared playlists.
I listened to all of them, each over ten times.

Cellophane plastered to my eyes
I watch our photos like a drunk moth
cradling a lamp, wondering if I’ll ever be able
to eat Indian food again.

I dig to see what you forgot about,
shards of glass and sea urchins
pulled by the wet sand, waiting to
breathe passed recycled air.

I shake my head left and right
crying with my feet,
watching as they sprout a new layer of minutes.

I embrace the nakedness of walking
in the dark, without being watched
by our delicate egg.

I stop praying for a reason
to preserve a lie
and give up having to say your name.
This hourglass is my own to save.

Hanna Pachman is a poet and filmmaker who uses writing as therapy to conquer objectification, health issues, and robot brains. Originally from Connecticut, she currently hosts a monthly poetry event called “Beatnik Cafe” and is an Assistant Editor for the poetry magazine Gyroscope Review. Her poems appear in or are forthcoming in Linden Avenue Literary JournalAnti-Heroin ChicFourth & Sycamore, Oddball Magazine, and Aberration Labyrinth.

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