At the Laundromat the cycles wash out
Angel instincts from the yellowed armpits
Of your t-shirts to exist as you were given
Is the kind of dullness a body gets
Submerged under ice for a thousand years
Until dragged out, placed under operating
Lights to only get a chance at ugliness
Our hulks have been brewing for millennia
Collecting soap and shoplifting perfume
Touching grit from the fraying hem
Ditched under the magnifying glass, our
Manicures severed and then pickled. I am sorry
You never got to see the sun burn
Your skin when it was new.
Nate Vaccaro is a haunted doll apologist attending college in Rhode Island. They are currently working on their first full-length book of poetry and can be found in (b)OINK Zine, OCCULUM, and FIVE:2:ONE Magazine. Follow them on Twitter @enjayve and on Instagram as tenderbutton.
VAGABOND CITY 