Writing

I was around nine years old when I started to hate myself...

I was never good enough

I would tell myself...

I stopped eating

I skipped meals

I kept quiet because

I was never good enough

Mama/an eagle. 
We/weasels/deer in headlights. 
She flies on. We stay. 

step outside

the breeze is blowing

wisps of cirrus cloud

the sky is blue

the geese are leaving

farewell

we say

and don't mean it

mean it please for once

the turning leaves will thank you

The moon hangs low tonight,

quiet as a thought not yet spoken.

Her light hovers over rooftops

and sifts through the cracks in curtains,

touching everything gently,

Juice tastes like your spit on my lips

It overflows, slides down the point of my chin--

I can see the dirt, the darker spots

It smells like my backyard, like orange blossoms in the spring time

Leaning into you

I guess I

Couldn't resist

I was tired

It was instinct

Can I really fight instinct

When it's leading me to you?

The soft flutter of butterfly wings against

My skin