returning home

is it confusion
movement
in the air
and it isn’t even
the smell of cat piss
on the blanket
by the door
that bothers me
but that it’s trapped inside
used to be my place
to hide and now
i live inside a prison

when i flew
three days ago
i came to realize
how close to death
that i could be
and that thought
it used to scare me
because i was so happy
and for a long time
that was lost
but then i finally
re-found it
and yet in that moment
i was craving
thoughts of suicide
again so that i could
enjoy the ride
i was returning home

but now i turn
the air off
for the first time
in a week
and i open all the windows
even though
the screen is cracked

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

clunky

a muffled tambourine
and many muted choral tunes
play beyond my ear phones
ruining my already soured mood
a food for thought
is what religion gave me
now my head is screaming “fuck you”

anger, when it’s present
takes away my gift of thought
losing rationality
and my biggest anxiety
is still the number of times
professors told me big words
weren’t meant for poetry

 

 

 

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

“Ugly”

what if I’m not scared anymore?
what if I leave my house
each morning
feeling ugly and free
and if I run into someone
who might recognize me
I do not hide

but I greet them with a smile
and a confidence that knows
I am the same person
that I was when I posted

that 38th try at a selfie

that I edited for hours
covered in filters that I cannot hide
behind in public
because my appearance
does not define me

MY APPEARANCE DOES NOT DEFINE ME

my appearance does not define me
anymore

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann

Rosary at the Altar

I just say please
won’t you be my priest
put me on my knees
teach me how to pray

nursery toy
won’t make me enjoy
Hail Marys, fuck boys
confessing my sins

hell and heaven
killing life within
did the Devil win?
I swallow his seed

Our Father says,
“day our daily bread”
but I’m giving head
so my mouth is full

 

 

 

 

Angela Bachmann