Posts
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once it was may...now it is not
Once it was May,
and flowers bloomed in sidewalk cracks,
robins flitted through the not-quite-summer air and
I lay in bed with the windows open and wrote poems as light as butterfly wings.
I thought I had everything figured out. -
I'm sorry, I have a question:
When did it start?
Girls being told they were less than boys, that they'd never be anything but wives and mothers,
that was their role in society, no questions asked -
temporary goodbye
Sometimes I still scroll through our text messages
nearly two years old now, no one's added a thing since May 2021
and of course no one will, because everything we wrote in there was -
13.
Once I dropped a penny in a fountain and wished to be a teenager.
I was only five; I thought it'd come true.
I insisted to my parents that my wish had been granted,
pretended to act moody like I heard teenagers were, -
Circle under the sky
We all sat in a circle under the sky
on a cool July night
in our own little corner of the world
where everything was perfect,
or at least good, at least peaceful
without war, without hate -
seven
I like so many songs that it's almost impossible to choose a favorite, but I do love "Seven" by Taylor Swift.
Loves
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I am a rotten mango
I've been seeing a lot of girls on Pinterest
With bodies that don't look like mine
And I don't look away, because they are beautiful--they are pictures I look for and want to see
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sleepaway #1
it rained the night of our arrival -
big, whooshing gasps of whitewashed rain & thunder that
shook heavy against the darkening skies. dinner went long.
we only sang louder, deafening echoes beneath the storm as
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Summer
the air tastes like honey and promise
sticky with the scent of blooming jasmine
and freshly cut grass that crunches beneath bare feet
the sky drips blue
stretching wider every afternoon
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ASHES AND BIRTHDAY CANDLES
your birthday was halo-lit nights and cigarettes in sugar cakes—
melted icing smeared over the tips of flames snuffed out in the dark.
you asked for a songbird, said your lungs were burnt with apocalypse dust
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living room record player
I'm six on the living room floor -
the pink album the pink album I chant -
dad puts the Supremes on the record player, the jacket handed to me -
pink, with three of the most beautiful women I've ever seen -
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Morning in Paris
It’s morning in Paris,
and the city still sleeps,
though the sun has long risen
and the cat has long been stretched in the light
that washes over the quiet courtyard.