When the height starts to hurt
More by Love to write
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Unbecoming
The streets have teeth and we hold our fingers with enough space for the others and drink cider on a corner where the ceiling above us blinks blue-blue-blue onto her tonsil-pink dress and someday I hope I never have to see it in a suitca
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Self-Portrait at 18
I know it’s a bad title
but I’m carving these words
out of my compacted mind.
I’m trying to mix the mud of my thoughts
into something more coherent
than to do lists and quiet -
Authorized Entrance Only
There is no twilight in the city.
Only time we collect in our mouths,
sun peeling color off the streets,
rats skittering down sidewalks.
The fire escape has been painted gold.
It shimmers at night,
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