Posts
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Sun descending in a sienna sky
The basketball court is slick with freshly-fallen rain, black nail polish hardened into enamel after spilling weeks ago lies on my desk, forgotten and right in front of my eyes, as I watch them play that game on my tiny screen, their feet sliding
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Realities
She pressed the cherry into my hand,
Smiling, it didn’t mush,
Didn’t leak red juice all over my summer-calloused palm
Like fake blood, too bright to be the real thing.
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Closer to spring
Darkness falls quickly now,
the feeble sky overpowered by the black pull of eternity.
Snow turns to rain, rain turns to mud,
and every month, I bleed and I cry.
It's almost Christmas, but
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My Heart Will Heal
Your eyes are dark like midnight, filled with millions of tiny stars
and I don't know what to say to you, what to do
because when I see you,
my
heart
breaks,
not in two but in so many scattered pieces,
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Lose you to the night
We talk as the twilight turns to dark ash,
sit out on the porch and catch fireflies in mason jars--
only for a second, then let them fly.
You tell me about friends I barely know, and I nod and smile at you,
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1st day of school
"Tomorrow is a new day, with no mistakes in it yet." ~ L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
Loves
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Size-11 EB Garamond
My words don't come
in anything other
than my voice, and
my voice doesn't come
in size-12 Times New Roman;
It comes in butterfly wings and
cluttered poems and ideas that
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again
You know I think it just struck me I was sitting here reading summer poems tasting raspberry popsicles on my tongue but looking out the window,
it's snowing out
and the trees and stone wall and everything,
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november
It's cold here, I reply to my grandparents when they ask how our week's going. It's cold, and wet, and already I am helping my friends put up Christmas decorations and string LEDs across their rooms, playing holiday music to try
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Addressed To: Soulmate, Out of Reach
They say that women don’t need men, and I believe that to be true. We don’t need men. But, by whatever powers may exist, does my young heart lie awake late at night and long to feel what it has never felt.
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Lily of the Valley
Somewhere, there is this little dock stretching out over a lake, where the clouds swim in the golden ripples of the rock I have skipped across its surface.