It’s too bad I like words.I find myself staringat this page-screentrying to achieve lexical beautyto Shakespearize my modern qualmsto romanticise my digital worldto capture the Dickensian complexity of mysuburban upbringing,but words fail sometimes.They
An unfinished, unsettled air swells my lungs. I choke.Hollowed redwoods and pastel Victorians echo car songsI find no solace in repeating alone. Solo karaoke,solo smoking, or solo sobriety will have to do.
I awake immobile.Make any move and the world will fall apart,Along with all the schemas we devised;An insatiable heart, not my own,batters my insides, leads revolutions.An existence between blink and breath,A mind
After Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck” Lacing my fingers through hers, my mothernavigates our adjoined hands. Together, we read the book of myths. I know what this book is for.I know who
It’s funny, when I first fell in lovewe weren’t hurrying through a bustling city.We never collided in a coincidenceof cascading documents and black coffee.At no point did I kneel, squintingthrough sunlight to
I never knew I could be so unkind. Even now, seeing the bodymove in on itself,slow slink, shouldersstealing small breathsabove the high grassrustling with hunger,I ripplewith doubt. Times like these,there is always