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







by Angela Bachmann

In Public

strangers strangle me
from across the room
their company
a suffocating suffering
searching for comfort
in an ugly skin
the only place I have
to call home

home is where you
hate yourself the most

and I just want to
be a ghost
to the monster that is
the public
with their eyes and hands
and mouths and bodies
leaving me weak
left weeping
when I am alone

a spineless turtle
exposed with no shell

I am shedding like a snake
with no skin to replace






by Angela Bachmann