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it is easy to write about the hollow parts of your body: the romance of open hands or a wet mouth, the delicacy of a boned, notched willow-neck, the aching ...

i am still in the act of promising something of myself to you: an unconscious pact or burden or lie i have told too many times - i am etching ...

i am nearing the end of your diary: sometimes as im fumble through whisper thin pages, i look for some image or semblance of you in here, look for your ...

easter morning: the thunder reaches into the trees parts the leaves with its teeth. the house is so dark; we look at the hills through the windows, watch the rain ...

falling asleep is a difficult practice: an underwater breath, a quickened heart, the stacatto, cruel-minded drum of your heart in your ear too heavily set into your pillow; and the ...

my mother is forgetting what it is to suffer; a empty shell learning to uncurl shake the sand from its ridges discover that it is filled with ocean, light, a ...

i am building myself a church of quiet. i am whispering into the cup of my hand, drinking from its sound and i am stretching my thin, elongated body until ...

i am 100% a slacker and

i wake in the afternoon; we are long legged together, warm and soft as light; i am still asking for your kindness. our home has flowers on the table, silverware ...

the lungs open: there are things more dire in this world than an exercise in futility. there is more lost in the breath, open wound mouth and last allowance for ...

i am hoping you will not remember me that the lack of recognition moves into sleep, grey hands, moving under the pillow, seeking out the last moments of a dream, ...

so excited about this/you

metamorphosis still dont know if its raining outside or if grey noise has settled inside of my ears; curling around myself, spiralling my spine into something thin and ridged, a ...

i'm late to the party

just gonna casually bring this back