i write when i can’t breathe. so, summer’s soft inhale – perfect writer’s block.
you’re here, you guess / here, where the world falls at your feet / (or the shadow of the world) / (or the shadow of a world) / and vertigo is something to look down on. / immune to it now because you have known it / because you are what climbed high enough to… Continue reading NaPoWriMo 5
the heat attracts itself to her like flame to moth teases instinct out and she dances with it. meeting you salves her exasperation. soothes the hives from days spent furling and unfurling her tulipped mouth for them, the aggressively uninteresting. but for you she springs, like hair from a bun.
becoming a monster sometimes isn't a choice that you have. the mother was mean and the boy was sold into a horrible circumstance. i can't sow, but if I could i guess I'd start with the hem if my mouth shut. i'm not tryna watch horror movies and then be alone, oh no am I… Continue reading NaPoWriMo 3
i’m thinking of all the women my mother rescinded me to. 8-7 weekdays. "I'm only leaving To bring things back." and i’m thinking of how she would tie a thread between us and her. mooring rope. “Can she see it?” Keisha’s mum never seemed to. So we sat together then, for hours waiting for the… Continue reading NaPoWriMo 2
poetry has broken the back of my voice. craft a bowl from spine. like lifted hands waiting for something to fall into them. poetry is taping postcards to hotel room walls. i’m dizzy. i’m watching a film in a language i don't understand and i'm watching my hands write subtitles. i’m falling asleep on my… Continue reading NaPoWriMo 1
they found themselves on either side of a shout through a bus window. one writes, stay the night. the other asks, am i a prostitute? [three weeks] one arrives on the other's doorstep, no winter jacket, does not sit down in the other’s mother’s presence, apologises. [at the other’s prospective house] one “we could make… Continue reading [a letter i still haven’t seen]
3 of them. pressed like flowers, inked, like flowers hands that have beaten poets from the sheets between me 3 of them. I just want every city to think of me and wish I was there, cup me like moonlight, miss me like a wound my god will make me a trophy in the next… Continue reading hands holding, hands holding
by the end of this year i will have a body of work. likely not yet at a standard i would like, but a living body.