Poetry

The month

(ish) 

of time between Thanksgiving

and December 25th

is 

undeniably

the best season.

Everyone is joyous

despite their

close-to-frostbitten noses

here in Vermont.

& walk around soho with maxi skirts & matcha & annotate the bell jar in velvet blue ink on curling pages with garamond font & wear my hair long down my back & dark sunglasses pulled up on my head & bangle bracelets that sli

I worry a lot about what I am. I worry about the shape I am, the space I take up, and the way I do it.

Just breathe, that’s what I’m told
In and out
You’re feeling anxious? Just breathe.
You can’t sleep? Just breathe. 
As I breathe in and out, and in and out 
I think about the time where I didn’t want to breathe

Sit at the counter with your head down in your 

phone, and your legs crossed. The dogs bark

as strangers walk up the driveway. Who are

The five stages of grief,

except nobody died.

They still flow through me

like he's gone forever,

but does it really matter?

It's not like he knows who I am.

However, he is gone,

forever,

my family has claimed thanksgiving.

it's our holiday, you know,

the one we do the best,

and so it must be ours. we're joking,

mostly, but it's true we do thanksgiving very well

probably overdo but it's better

Watch, as I shall tear down the sky

reach for the stars, and burn my fingers

the world below me, silent does it lie

the stars and their burn - still lingers

lingers like lost, but not, quite lost

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

Touched by your kindness,

I felt a sudden warmth in my chest.

If you can really say, "I love you"-

will my mind feel lighter?

Past closed doors,

I can hear a faint voice.

I can't make it go away,

I remember when

my eyes met his—

the ghost boy with the pink hair and the fake life.

Right, he sighed. Guess we're climbing a skyscraper tonight, you ready, lame traffic earring?

He pleads and begs with knees rusty and matted

Feet of vines to soak the fall not bound like his wife's

before Dysentery dragged His sword

into her glowing heart.

A guarded truth of us