Posts
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autumnal
the world is colder than before
north winds exhaling dragon breath across the valley and
my doorstep where i wait for the bus (bumblebee against concrete),
rubbing my hands together and
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The Fleeting Moment on the Bus During Which I Spied a Dead Thing and a Raven
lines on the road paralyze me redefine me reignite a sort of otherworldly longing in me orange blurs into yellow blurs into black lines blink in and out of a parallel existence / red was never a factor in this but you could never chalk red into yo
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ode to washing my face in the sink
this old sink,
hanging onto the wall by a thread
and a rusted pipe,
gushes water that still runs clear,
even after the generations of girls
(in pig- and pony-tails, braids and loose)
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Chapter One - REVISED
IZIMA
Be careful, Izima. -
Day In The Life of a Getaway Driver
BONG. BONG. BONG. Three o'clock and all's well, I thought, peering out the front windshield of taxi 38, the black-and-yellow 2018 Toyota I've been carting New Yorkers around in every day for five years. Everybody knows me.
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Chapter One - (title unknown)*
IZIMA
Be careful, Izima.
Loves
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Crossroads
what do I do when the leaves are dead?
what do I do with this road ahead?
i'll walk the stretch, and clear the way,
but my feet won't move today.
what do I do when these trees are surreal?
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routine details
the bus driver glared at me
like i was a sin to society;
he called me a fag—under his breath,
and i got in my seat like nothing happened.
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Turning A Page
Verse 1
The sun sets slow on this fading day,
I see your faces, but they feel far away.
Laughter lingers in the hollow air,
But something’s shifting like you’re not really there. -
happiness
Rain.
Laughter.
Smiles.
Swimsuits and twister.
Getting soaked just for fun.
This is girlhood.
This is happiness.
This is freedom.
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Childhood Wonder
When I was younger, summer meant going swimming, getting ice cream, and taking trips to the Montshire Museum. Now, although some of those things still apply, I experience them differently than I used to.
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amnesia
wrap your laced-up fingers around my throat like you don’t want to breathe,
hold my pupils in your palms. do you want to smile?
amnesia. the brain doesn’t like the watercolour poem of my skeletal frame,