Topography and Other poems 

by Hallie Fogarty

[cw: self harm, suicide and mental health]

Topography

Like a mother’s blood, spilt,

I touch you in shades of pink.

I uncover you, only for us both

to play dumb.

I hit the curb on my way out

and I think of you.

My radio broke and

only played one song,

one song with the chords

that sound like you, and

then it played nothing at all.

The silence suited you better.

There Will Be Other Movies

with translations that can’t be read

and subtitles you’ll speak over;

there will be other days that turn into

nights with long winded calls and dead

phones.

But I will wake up in the morning having

forgotten you. I’ll be refreshed.

A blank memory will do me wonders.

A Litany for Pretty Things

I had a dream that all of my teeth fell out

of my mouth, right into my hands. But I

caught them, intact and brand new. None

of them had crumbled. I resort back to

biting my nails, tugging at the long whites

and picking at the skin. I bite down when I

am bored. I bite down the parts of me that

have room to grow.

only blue

i am in a therapist’s office,

or a psychiatrist’s office,

i don’t know her degree,

and the painting on the wall swirls

and eats me up. i am

swirling and falling

and swirling and falling

in shades of cornflower blue.

my hand will trip on cerulean,

out pours some powder blue. 

blue is a stupid color for a doctor’s office,

for a doctor who’s supposed

to tell me not to kill myself,

supposed to notice the Band-Aid on my thigh

and the stuttering of words.

blue is a stupid color for this whirlpool

of doctor language, of parts of the brain.

she says another name of a medicine

and the corners of my eyes blur a little.

i only see static, only see

flashes of her blonde hair, the only

bright thing against the blue.

Playing God

There’s a heart on the other side of the telephone,

on the other side of God.

Your soul is a piece of paper with

perforated edges for the taking.

Every word is a foreign language to your ears

and you can hear the ringing.

When you cut your arms at night,

you taste iron.


Hallie Fogarty (she/they) is a lesbian poet, writer, and visual artist currently creating and studying in Northern Kentucky. When not creating, she can be found reading or spending time with her three dogs. Her work is forthcoming in Vox Viola Literary Magazine and she can be found on twitter @halfogarty