Writing

every twist of inadequacy's blade

(each one worse than the previous)

fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence

carried in. did you hate me?

you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.

In my attic I keep my heart. 
I hold it there, safe amidst pillows, blankets and childhood stuffed animals. 
When I make things, I break off a piece of my heart, 
and sew it into pillows, 

Sit in the cold gray sand. Like a sand crab,

nestle between each grain and wait

for the waves to crash on the shore. Tell me how

the beach is like the sky, a map of tiny things

Remember the old A-shaped house?

The one with the castle downstairs

And the spell around it?

It's empty now.

Did you know that?

The white mouse turns a corner and slides on the cold tile of the kitchen floor. The grey-striped cat follows closely behind, its claws clattering as it chases the quick blur of white.

There was this book

That I used to read

When I was younger

It talked about all these women

All these women

Who did amazing things