maelynslavik

Your gut curdles.

Your skull stays stiff.

Your flesh shakes,

your feet are wet.

The world can’t fit

inside your shell.

Your skin splits —

October 17th, 2025. 3:35 pm 

I go to the woodshop 

Grab some cardboard 

Walk over to the weeping willows 

Find a large stick and 

Break off the uneven twigs 

Composed on a run

With autopilot turned on

And an old love song
 

Quick little poems

With no start, nor a clear end

Grown just in my head
 

In a cozy nook

Not unwritten, but unsaid