pomes

puppet;

Some-
One called me “skinny girl
With the red hair,” and
I felt proud
To be defined by my fire
And my lack of matter –
My lack of matter –
My lack of space –
I am what I am
Not, Continue reading “puppet;”

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pomes

degrade

Sadness to the point of incoherency.
Sadness to the point of physiological degrade,
The point of “Where am I, why am I,
I don’t want to be.”
I don’t want to be.
To the point of stopping and starting,
Stopping and
Starting,
In the middle of thoughts and words
And Continue reading “degrade”

pomes

rupture, rinse, repeat

I thrive upon routine;
Rupture, die, rinse, repeat;
No night is complete without
Honey-lavender leaves
Dried, boiled, steeped at my bed side.
I desire stability;
I desire my own warmth at night,
My own skin, my own breaths,
My own arms tucked tight around me.
I am
The only one
I know with all certainty
Will never abandon me by morning.
I wake up with the sun and cleanse thoroughly
Whatever ails I fought the night before;
I am always fighting.
I crave routine and the sounds of summer,
The softness of winter,
My worn, steady hand –
“You can’t make me sad
Because I already am.”

-s.f.