"There are some wounds
that can never heal.
There are scars that
make us who we are.
But without them,
we don't exist"
There are scars that
make us who we are.
But without them,
we don't exist"
hard
to explain,hard
too
show.
i guess
ill
just
say
i dont
know
you
and
let
it go...
A.S....
He doesn't understand yet that guilt comes to you not from
the things you've done,
but from the things that others have done to you
but from the things that others have done to you
FEBRAURY Roses are like the flames that warm the cold Moon on a winter night.
— Bing Hua
22 December 2018
I imagined my mind knowing better felt
my viscera quiver. the birds get startled
into flight though always round-trip.
it’s good to be home alone not that you would
if I had anything to do about it but
we make do. life sucks
its thumb. you’re right where
you’re meant to be. who’s to say blankets
aren’t party dresses or that eyes
can only wet in one way.
gloveless in this eventide chill.
luckily we aren’t parting thickets
for interstices for clarity.
I empathise with the trees that bend
out of light’s way at least till rough
limbs creep up gently
against glass they refuse to crack.
dirty bedroom window remains so. it treasures
the head that rested on it oil and all pondering
the ease with which we dance around naked intention.
show me it’s possible to live and for quite a while
without flowering a new wound.
how lovely we are in our natural state.
taste of raw tongue on my tongue waves
fragile at our feet. we stay dipped long enough for
our digits to grow old shrivel without
fear. something once felt too cruel to endure.
I would not have chosen to float
if given the option. but now i’ll swim.
I imagined my mind knowing better felt
my viscera quiver. the birds get startled
into flight though always round-trip.
it’s good to be home alone not that you would
if I had anything to do about it but
we make do. life sucks
its thumb. you’re right where
you’re meant to be. who’s to say blankets
aren’t party dresses or that eyes
can only wet in one way.
gloveless in this eventide chill.
luckily we aren’t parting thickets
for interstices for clarity.
I empathise with the trees that bend
out of light’s way at least till rough
limbs creep up gently
against glass they refuse to crack.
dirty bedroom window remains so. it treasures
the head that rested on it oil and all pondering
the ease with which we dance around naked intention.
show me it’s possible to live and for quite a while
without flowering a new wound.
how lovely we are in our natural state.
taste of raw tongue on my tongue waves
fragile at our feet. we stay dipped long enough for
our digits to grow old shrivel without
fear. something once felt too cruel to endure.
I would not have chosen to float
if given the option. but now i’ll swim.
Southwest
Gothic
weather vanes spinning wildly even though
there's no wind
sunsets bathing everything in saturated light before all the color disappears
old homesteads leaning to one side
everything covered in cobwebs
walking in the desert alone
but you're not alone
someone on the crest is crawling with you
waking up to the sound of a complete downpour but looking outside and it hasn't rained even a drop
your walls have eyes
and they've seen
sunsets bathing everything in saturated light before all the color disappears
old homesteads leaning to one side
everything covered in cobwebs
walking in the desert alone
but you're not alone
someone on the crest is crawling with you
waking up to the sound of a complete downpour but looking outside and it hasn't rained even a drop
your walls have eyes
and they've seen
