trix arctor – 3 poems

Screenshot

I woke up to a wasteland.

It used to be a special treat 
to feel like a misanthropist. 
Now it’s the water I bathe in. 
I’m hydro-dipped in
hatred I can’t place—
some incels must’ve spit
in the reservoir.

A slave to my endocrine system, 
or something.
I can’t ever find the words.
They keep pushing a rod through 
my ear and whisking
my brain while I sleep.

Something I’ll never have. 
More of the same—it gets old quick. 
I know. I know. I know.

I want to kill and be a savior, 
or just be left alone forever. 
It gets humid with enamel
as I claw at my baby-blue 
bedroom walls.

And still, it means nothing. 
Paid for pussy.
Torched,
dismembered,
bulldozed.


Broad Strokes

He can’t tell desire 
from desire.

She can’t tell a boy 
from a man,
vodka from water.
She calls it “friendship”.

Together, they see
who can run the longest with 
weights around their ankles. 
He’s made sick countless times.


Disabled, Deferred

Fuck it all,
I slept through my alarm.

Every birthday,
forced to wear this stupid suit; 
every spurt of cum,
all the crucial points.

Fused nodes tighten
the belt which binds
me to the ceiling,
forcing me to watch
as my peers wade
in puddles of my sorrow. 
Hardened, stubborn bones
do little to hide their laughter.

All the good things 
and most of the bad, 
blacked out, marked 
“Non Applicable”.

They said to me,
“Eat through heaps of money 
and you’ll make it through.”

They said to me,
“Kick back, it’s a train ride— 
not a teleporter.”

I replied,
“By the time I arrive,
I’ll have missed a 
thousand more memories. 
And for the record,
I never asked for
this epic journey.”

Thrashing, flailing, all that’s left: 
“Maybe in another life, kid.”


TRIX ARCTOR is a born-and-bred New Yorker and cosmic voodoo doll currently practicing isolation. Her work spans many disciplines, but mainly employs sound and color, dealing with populism, emotions, and the future. Find her by throwing paper shurikens and following where they land.


HOME