Drunk on His Poetry
His word-fingers slip my buttons from their slots, those intentional letters sparkle my spots and crevices. My mind sips his thoughts, my heart disintegrates, melts wetter into the dots of…
No Medication
Sometimes, I die inside because people I love are there. There’s no solution, no medication to tighten tear ducts or lighten the aches, no erasers for the sharp lines and…
Claws at the Office
Some of our sisters are the most twisted villains; She brings coffee when she senses a mess, a hint of drama, a speck of a stressful item on the agenda,…
A Poet’s Hustling Pen
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…
Shared Feathers
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…
Scraps in Notebooks During the Quarantine
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…