i keep my heart, like a bird, between the gentle fingers of my clasped hands i can hear its soft temper singing to me, humming louder still as i walk back outside with it.
with all these visions of my life as it was, i have to think that maybe the best is behind me.
there will be no funeral for my trust, no grief, no mourning. i have buried it now, on my own.
i hate that i ever felt like somebody. somebody important. recently, i’ve been removing the steps from ladders i thought i deserved to climb.
when my mind stops working obsessively and allows me to drift, i imagine impossible futures that i dream of occupying.
i hear the shower on in the bathroom for hours at a time. and i pay so much for the water bill, but i know he is just trying to feel warmth in a life that left him tepid at best, and frozen at ...
i pray that i haven’t become your biggest disappointment, hope that when you thaw out your soul, you think of me fondly.
if i fall from grace, i hope it’s into your arms. i’ve built myself up so much that i’ve become the other shoe, the one that ends it all.
i wish i could write to describe what dissociating feels like maybe then i could feel as real as the people around me. but i can only see my face in reflections i don’t think it’s actually ...
i had a dream i would bring you back back to your breath on my neck back to this weight on my tongue
if this is it, i am satisfied that i have seen enough.
i couldn’t find enough houses to shelter my sadness. couldn’t divvy up enough parts of my head to tuck it all away. the ones left behind live other places now. now, my throat constricts now...
tried to find the shape your feet left in the sand, tried to see your patterns of freckles in the couplings of stars spat on our black sky, tried to imagine you seeing the same constellations...
what to do on the first morning after the one you love has died: do nothing close your small hands around nothing sink into what your bed has become, a memorial, a grave, a place where a smel...
the way his lips wrap around your name (in indignation, in protest, in shouting, in whispers at the foot of your bed) never managed to look like praise. instead, he moves his mouth to fit yo...
his wrist is sore from holding your hand the wrong way round. he’s never had a good grip on you, the warmth at the center of your palm is miles away now.
i keep looking down at my hands, expecting them to be covered in cheap costume glitter. each time i wring them out they grate together roughly, catching my eyes.
my tongue has dried up in my mouth, and no more can escape my flaking lips. my teeth rotted in their sockets, poison turning my voice to dust. not speaking since i formed the word cancer ...
i am sick with worry. my breath is caught stealing air from my throat. stones set, sitting, staying, stomach-hating pit deep. my heart lies heavy, beating my eardrums in nervous mallet tempos. ...
i am an old house, praying the paint on my walls makes me look bright.