Honeyed, delicate, withered at the weight of last spring’s memory. Neither care nor money—our love doesn’t bud or blossom. We are born this way, mass-produced, toxic. The plastic petals of your dress, synthetic red, sheened under the blue glow of the TV screen. Your cracked polystyrene core, dewed with glue of lust, soft to the touch. from our chemical formulae. Bouquets of numbers assist our mutual self-pollinations. We are born this way, naturally artificial. Still, my cheap nylon envy your silk. Yet here I am, at the base of you, sunk into this industrial bliss, again and again, my wax-slick hands to your oil-smeared thighs— I am not your deflowerer, as much as Your co-manufacturer.
Pachera is a non-binary lesbian writer and translator currently living in their hometown of Ratchaburi, a little province on the western part of Thailand. They have been writing poems in their time off as a way to not only immerse themselves in language, but also to shun what language brings when things are named.
Litehouse 