poetry
abandoned poems
Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.
Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
