WINGS I envy eagles and butterflies, I envy ravens and bumblebees. I envy all creatures born with the gift of flight. I achingly long to have wings of my own. Feathery but strong as steel, iridescent purple, blue and white. Wings as beautiful and fierce…

bathing the sand in swatches of tangerine, indigo, lavender your hand rests on mine there in the reedy grasses just like it was at the beginning but weren’t we tentative then– fumbling toward something I wasn’t sure you wanted? we’ve learned to bend into each…

FROM THE INSIDE OUT Inside out, outside in. Break my body, slam my brain, to fit the golden ratio of beauty. Two hours, three hours at the gym, counting calories, watching Macros, but a Mesomorph can never be an Ecto. So fuck the scale and…

DEATH TO SELF I see, hear and feel the truth, but it does not set me free. Rather, it pricks my heart with a finely cut dagger. I miss the you’s through out my life, all those I’ve had to say goodbye to. Why? Why…

I wrote us into a book well, two really One version takes place in Pompeii and you are a boy named Caecilius You are a boy who dreams vividly of his Julia being swept away in the tides of lava She calls out for her…

A grey dove, wingtips dipped in red, hangs from the jaws of my Iris– a hound as old as she is shocked at her surprising retrieval. Look what I’ve managed to bring you– this small dove with bloody wingtips, she says with two eyes, one…

Let’s say her name is Amelia & she drags her children behind her in a sac, but let’s also say that this is an act of maternal mercy & when they are ready for the world, Amelia will christen them: Jorge. Kim. Nefertiti. Hans. Abram….

They watch us eat, quarrel, make love, sleep. ~ Of All the Highrises, Cathy Park Hong, Engine Empire In these sparse rooms, grief hangs like a bland painting. The ones with heavy shoulders, they work shaking hands through their hair. The small ones, the ones…

She had, as we say in the industry, a flat affect. Relaying a monumental series of traumas; from a stepfather with indecent proclivities, to a stolen Dodge pickup, the night she spent in the woods after her aunt forgot to count children when she packed…

and here’s what they won’t tell you about leaving: villains don’t press their sweating scalps into pillows, desperate for sleep, eyes pricked open by the gathered dust of that day, pulse hammering too fast into the future (anywhere better than here/now/him/then), skin braced against fingers…