headed home

i step out, Midwest December
beneath the falling snow
to walk down Lee Hill Boulevard
toward the place that holds my treasure
but the silence there is suffocating
even my breath begins too loud
so i must not stay for too long
before lifelines all turn flat, enjoyment
look up online beforehand
so i can leave in a hurry
with a book or two clasped in my hand
i am already headed home

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

Soil

internal destruction breeds
and precedes life, yet
I only ever noticed the beauty
each flower had to offer
forgetting the traces of time
embedded deep beneath the surface

do the soils feel such pain
as I do as we carry the future within us
together as unwilling hosts
to the beings not yet birthed
not yet breathing air alone

or do the plains of dirt
long to contain the procreation
of a waiting womb
searching for fertilizing substance
to fuel some future, unknown and still
nothing

an egg planted within
that never asked to be ignited
into pains of interior reconstruction
to accommodate another

the smooth, skinny flatland
not yet showing physical sign
of the rooted stem
but suffering sore consequence inside
is rid of its intruding plant
flushed out in pools of red
relieving the earth of mistaken obligation
free to remain
simply soil

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

Bedtime Stories

words spill out of my body
only in the hours in which I am so
sleep deprived that my senses
do not filter out my authenticity
with an anxiety to write something
beautiful, instead my insides turn
out and I am exposed for all
that I am in the least poetic sense

I crave being pretty poetry and yet
my lines only ever align in the time
which I am barely even conscious
breathing heaviness behind my eyes
forcing my hand to stroke the page
for only a few more words written
before I fail to stay awake
trying to grasp my aching wonder
suppressed into a sleepy mind

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

 

 

 

 

 

Reflection

skin stretches and pulls against the bones
protruding through my figure, plunging
out like a swan dive
off of the quarry’s edge, elegant and yet
haunting
because the starvation is tiring
and the will power left to fuel the swim
to shore is waning away
with the rush of the water against the winds of the land
and each meal mixed up in the blender beneath my ribs
before resurrecting to the place it once began
only this time leaving violently
between convulsions of hurling motions
as my head whips down as a finger
slips free making way
for the stream of self-hate to erase
itself from my body

only it is always there

with each glance at the slim reflection
rippling into the lake
pushing and pushing and pushing and
pushing
distorting the reality of my image and
as my figure dances with the waves
I can’t help but to believe
this fragmented, broken being
is the most accurate evidence of my appearance
that I have ever seen

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Being Bulimic

to vomit is really quite simple
when you normalize the feels
of the finger pushing further
down your throat to reach the meals

that you hate yourself for eating
but you couldn’t stand to starve
so you gorged yourself in garbage
until your stomach was enlarged

so commences daily actions
following three meals a day
jumping jacks to get you going
then your head whips down to pray

to the toilet as you’re hurling
waiting to start to dry heave
then you know that you’ve succeeded
and got all the fat to leave

over time you begin shrinking
but you never tell your shrink
wearing baggy clothes to hide it
growing weaker than you think

reading blogs on how to puke
but not following the advice
so you know it’s not a problem
tell everyone that it’s alright

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

 

 

twenty-two tabs open

what is earthing?
500 words a day
English literature jobs
Selena Gomez blonde
fishnet outfit Tumblr
Leo daily horoscope
short report- personal profile
natal chart report
“Steps” by Frank O’Hara
ram tattoo
free astrology reports
phd and mfa students
Frequently Asked Questions
Aquarius moon
feminist print art
Manifestation Secrets: 8 Manifestation Rituals
wrap a stone into a pendant
how to make cannabis topicals
Pinterest
what you need to cross-stitch curves
Fate and Furies: A Novel by Lauren Gruff
learn how to embroider letters

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

i am a cynic

so much so
it makes me sick
creating plaques
for winning
biggest critic

can’t seem to shake
these sorry thoughts
cemented in
my mind

i know it’s time
to stop
my somber self
keeps feeding
off of failure

manifesting
brings me
so much sorrow
to my soul

i think i was
born whole
but years of yearning
turned me
into axes

i’ve hacked off
everything that
was left
of happy feels

there’s nothing now
to live for
and abandoning
my body seems

to be the
only choice
that i have
left

(but leaving means
this body
dies . . .
maybe that’s for
the best)

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

metaphysics

don’t tell me i
don’t have Free Will
as you continue
taking pills
to numb the darkness
in your mind
keep acting like
everything’s fine
saying this is
how it must be
because you never
believe me
when i start to
speak otherwise
you don’t think that
i can be wise
without believing in
Determinism

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

at the art museum

i go to enter a room
and the reverberating noise from a distant fan
makes me feel sick

i have just been lying in a room nearby
nearly pitch black
except for the projected images onto a screen against black wall
black couches
black floor

and heard voices of men speaking over
the voice of a woman
speaking about art
and images
and words

and yet beyond that room
was so much light
so many dim spotlights
directed towards the works of art
made in such a way that no photograph you ever took
could come out with a crisp
clear quality

and so i go back into another dark corner
one different than before and this time
not quite so bright the screen projections
not quite so dark the room

and as i am perched on a small stool
it occurs to me
that the words of the woman remind me
of Lana Del Rey
in the interlude of her 2015 studio album
(Burnt Norton, Honeymoon)
speaking of metaphysics and i think
to myself how possible it is
that none of this is real

but then it is revealed to me
that i am here alone
and i must enter back into the room
that fills my ear drum
makes me dizzy

and once i do i take a seat
spot my love across the way
and i wave

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

theatrics

maybe one day
each of these half-written poems
may be pieced together
to create something better,
something complete

because as concrete as
my thoughts are
they never seem to come out
making any sense

and it makes me tense
just thinking about
how I might never amount to anything
and eventually I will learn
to grin at my failures instead

but for now I simply have no feelings left
at all

it is fall outside
but it is winter inside
my soul and the hole
in my heart
continues to grow
much bigger everyday

I say I keep my hope
within tomorrow

but maybe that’s just a lie

I repeat to myself
to make me want to stay
so I smoke a cigarette
even though I quit
over a year ago

and as tobacco fills
my lungs I feel a lunging
in my stomach
and I do not know if it’s
disease that grows
inside of me

or the hate
that has become me
but regardless of the source
this hurting still is so much real
that I want to scream

at this mean world
you see I wonder
often if it’s nothing
but purgatory
one that I made up in my own mind
to cause me pain

but it’s all just the same
at the end of every day

I may be a terrible actor
but this life isn’t a play

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann