top of page

Elena Ramirez-Gorski

In the café Lennie says he doesn’t have a type

My ex’s dead ex looks just like me

She had a habit of lying in the street and

he fell in love with her in the headlights

of a semi-truck that didn’t kill her

but could have if she decided

the game was over

He says she was fucking crazy

I say I used to play the same game

and he says trust me

you aren’t like her

I don’t say that I understood the pleasure

of wheels rattling my chest

and feeling the weak organ

jerk awake

He says he doesn’t know

if he’ll ever understand her

I don’t talk about my suspicion that

she and I lived the same life

origami-ed ourselves into the same polite shapes

to seduce the white boy with clean sneakers and baby fat

because there are as many bland boys

looking for manic pixie dream girls

as pill-bitter girls looking for someone

to miss and eulogize them

I ask how the funeral went

He said he wouldn't know

He didn't have the tears

Or the words

So I say take mine

I’ve kept them warm:

you leaving tore dumb tooth from gum

you dying ripped blood clot from socket

now I am all exposed nerve

you taught me to feel and now

I’ll never unlearn


Elena Ramirez-Gorski is a Chicana writer from Adrian, Michigan. She is currently an undergraduate at the University of Michigan studying Creative Writing and Literature as well as Latina/o Studies. She has work published in The Acentos Review and forthcoming in Split Lip Magazine.

Recent Posts

See All

Vots de casament I hear a woman yell but she’s a bitch! She’s a bitch. I sit on the red sofas of the Monarch bar, again, a beer. La más barata, por favor. Brindo por mis tías. Many alcohólicos en mi f

THE ROAD HOME The road home is full of dusts, on your way back you would learn to take Those classes you fled from, lessons of patience, how to marry the chaos softly, How little could mean bounty som

how to banish a ghost ritual is just another name for the habits grief carves from a mourner’s tongue. you empty your mouth until you’re a rabid song knee-sunk in your mother’s garden. prayers a rift

bottom of page