I'mma Sell My Guns
By Cassandra Troyan
(Illustrated by Stephen Michael McDowell)


How strange to love a thing like mouthwash.
I would like to gargle your cum.

I want to fuck in the park.
I want to piss on yr chest.
I will smash my clit into yr sternum.

Actually just look at my face please and let me sit on yr chest.

I’m going to punch you in the dick,
spill water on yr 15” MacBook Pro.

I will need more fidelity. I will not give up.
I will show up at yr apartment
and ring the buzzer and wait
outside even after you let me in
and I will breathe through the building
exhaling into the speaker
our face could never be that close.

Go to the bathroom with me.
Come in my mouth in my esophagus
repetitive sexy failures.
It’s so easy to feel that adulthood
is closing in on something
rather than opening up.

The wants of our bodies to all meld together
this one doesn’t like a hip touch
another one no hair tug
because his father used to pull
him by his hair
but you are the only person
who has hurt me how I wanted
and then more than I wanted
until I wanted more.


I dreamt of being with you in bed
but I couldn’t see the bed.
Every time I closed my eyes to try to see,
I was bombarded with an image of a flower
exploding again and again
shivering its path into my vision.

A hatchet forced into the ground
becoming a flag.

I will destroy myself so I won’t need to kill.

To have the strength to stand for your own selfish hate.
To run against a stream of something like disaster.

Look at me, I have a body
and it moves in space
for when the heart gets blunted
head is foggy.

I want to be in a way of thinking that is only feeling.

There is never a time when anything doesn’t matter.
Nothing is inevitable.
Even a wound is a child.

What do you fear?

No tears for the creatures of the night.
They rest in gold milk.

It’s melancholy at golden hour and all we have room for is

Black Bile
Black Bile
Black Bile

It catches your lungs then your wrist like a shackle
as all I really want is for a peacock to stand on my chest.

Is that really too much to ask?
I don’t want children
I just want to be your mother.
I want to hold a rock in my mouth
and offer it you as an egg.

To put grapes in your mouth
and drool through the fruit.
To feel contented by the idea of not thinking, not just
not thinking in the syrup of a want.

I really believe in absolutely nothing except everything
as it’s easy to be afraid of something true.


cassandra troyan lives in chicago