Colors dance across frosty ground
Golden sunlight reaching far corners
Dusty shadows filling unnseen crevises
Painting the land with magic and wonder

I have tried to paint this beautifully
in swirling pastels of childhood
like Vaseline over a camera lens
hazes of slow-motion imagery
if it’s naive to believe in changing the world
then I am still a fool
a child’s helpless grasp on hope
in a woman’s intuition

There are thoughts I have that
I block from escaping my lips.
Sometimes they try to pry them open,
start a mutiny aboard the ship
riding the waves that roll along my tongue.

no words. even they do not like to stick around to save their sanity. i am not like you,
but i’ll give you children
i’ll try
just promise you’ll make a real thing out of me; a real useful thing. one that talks. and let me hunt for
myself. and for every thing

I can still remember the first time I felt true devastation- it was the 28th of January 2019. I’d been keeping two pet mice for almost six months at that point, and I rarely thought about anything else.

I can’t grapple with – understand, process, comprehend – the fact that I am, by all evidence against me, very mentally ill. I am sick. I am weak and guilty. There is something – a variety of things – wrong, here. My mother is published in numerous medical journals.

I. The sun dipped below the horizon; I clutched my grandma’s hand a bit tighter. She had turned sixty-seven that day, I was a mere ten. We strolled through the old neighbourhood, the streets lined with trees bearing shiuli flowers, their fragrant aroma hanging in the air.

A man walked down cold, desolate streets wearing nothing but a patched up hoodie and ill-fitting boxers. He didn’t know how he had gotten those clothes. He wasn’t sure how he would explain them to his wife. Admittedly, he probably wouldn't have to. Little chance she would care.

When I dance for the kitchen window, the mirror it becomes in the dark, I become shapeless. Like my soul feels. No longer a female body—or male—but an artform; my representation of authenticity.

leave your house for a while,
traipse around and think that
you’d rather be at home.
remind yourself the world has meaning
even though
you don't believe it.
work tirelessly,
rest after it’s too late.
note that privilege comes with guilt
feel guilty

And I’d make myself sick if I was another person watching my thoughts. It’s a blurry and slow-moving
compilation of coincidences stacked on top of eachother: sticky teacups stacked on a desk, junk mail

the two of you walk around the lake,
trying to balance on the familiar, unsteady ground.
around you, icicles hang from trees like glass ornaments,
swaying lightly in the wind.
they’re on the edge of breaking off the branches
but they don’t.

Little calloused hands climb up a grandfather clock
Pink cheeks and huffy breaths of exertion
We try to pull ourselves up the very same trees
That lightning struck down years ago
I don’t see my dad as much as I did back then

i’m stuck on the edge of something and i’m sure i’ll find it under the waves that tug me like a hook in the eye and i know there’s something where the sky ends but i’m not sure what this pain is supposed to bring me closer to or what stain this salt is supposed to scrub or even if this is the lon

take the knife and never use it –
press mercy into your skin and
hope it’s enough to fling the stars’
light back. grow into your teeth
and remember all their faces.
open your mouth and drink down
every drop. can’t you see?
you are nothing until you are wanted.

Have I ever told you that
Once, I reached my arm
In the sky, to try
To pinch a distant star—

I wanted to squeeze it,
To secrete its sweat
And watch it drop from light years away onto my tongue

I know nothing but darkness
Until my stomach is ripped open
The light turns on and they look inside
Give me nutrients and then take them away
Steal my belongings
And drink my blood
I haven't slept since birth, I am so afraid
For one day I will break down

when i go:
scatter my ashes in that clear cold stream.
let the current take me down,
down,
to that small place,
where god stains her cheeks with river-clay
and cicadas scream sweet hymnals.
where life is raw and quiet and sublime
and the worms find heaven in

Two sleeves brush. In a single touch, it blossoms: love.
Wide-eyed, whisper anything in my ear, I’ll call it love.

Barefoot on a pedestal, white lace, floor-length mirror.
If you don’t cry when I walk down the aisle, is it love?

A fish doesn’t know what water is
But I think the water is full of-
Questions

You need to clean your room, honey.

The answers don’t matter nearly

-I know, I will.

As much as the act of asking

Whistle a tune by the fire with me friend
There's whole worlds out there,
but right now you're on this one...
So take it in

Freedom is only a tool,
Soon, you'll see that.
Timber giants stand among us here,
They cannot walk, but their spirits are reinless

lobby
i step onto the elevator
and push for floor 12
a woman in a black dress rushes in and asks for 13
she has red-hair and her perfume smells nice
we wait in silence for the doors to close and begin our ascent

Things that I feel guilty for:

Red scratchy fabric lining the confessional
Imprinted a checkerboard into my knees;
My spine stacked upright,
Leading to heaven, or down into hell;
Guilt or shame pulling my head down;
Tears would’ve fallen on my baby cheeks
If the church hadn’t been as cold as hell was hot;

Auburn curls waltz in my eyes, flames in my earliest memories.
I remember most parts fondly.
Matching blue eyes, struggles inherited
from your mother.
We struggled existing
as the proper mother and daughter.

I stare at the pavement
And pray it turns back time
I hope the concrete changes
And I’m back where I was before
When I belonged

I smiled when she said
That I was the only person she really talked to
In the only class we shared.
I would ask her
How her week had been
Since we both knew
The quality of our week
Far outweighed our day.
Only, I don’t think she ever realized

Where I hope to be
In case you ever need to find me
And I am no longer here:
Find me in the stolen glances
Across the room when everyone is busy.
In the anxious anticipation
Of someone’s presence
Or the small thrill that comes
From a brief moment of locked eyes.

Three strings across my body,
Pinky and thumb pinching each fraying end.
Pulled across my chest, three strands
Strung taught in my open arms.

Pink,
Blue,
And white.