From the Numbered Collection I tell little lies to my loverEveryday. White lies of contentmentAs if I am not angry without reasonSolemn without prompt or explanation
From the Numbered Collection Water-filled lungsDo not rise and fallBroken limbsWill falter beneath the weight of windCrippled fingers and swollen lipsWill make jagged edges of your touchAnd a bloody mess of your words, however well-intendedA mind reeling around itselfEating at its own fleshWill eventually decayAnd your thoughts will notSeep into the soilOr float to theContinue reading “1 – Body”
I feel really weak today as if the world might open up and swallow me whole As if conversation might break me down from my head to my toes, until I am a mere pile of bones and sinew I feel really demure today… like if I speak too loudly, my guts will come spillingContinue reading “Bad days”
I wrote this poem about sexual assault and how survivors may respond to physical touching afterwards.