Scorched Feathers

I wish I had more of me to bleed into these scribbles that I manage to dribble onto paper scraps, squish into the white spaces of dinner receipts and food…

It’s a privilege to hurt this much, to feel this full-body screaming numbness; this puncturing of flesh and reason and reality by blades forged of empty space and silence; this…

Don’t lure me into a cage with pretty songs and bright feathers that have never felt the wind in flight; take a tattered one from my wild wing, let’s breathe…

I don’t know about you, but I had a few really dark, blah weeks during this quarantine. That means I didn’t do much more than I had to. Stress was…

Home is where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. It is a web of pavement, winding tar, trees and houses and bars, coasting to the car’s low…

A poet doesn’t just love you for a moment. She lets you puncture her skin with the way you feel, lets it heal, and then rubs it now and then…