dye it in madder of roses, so we can begin

(they are - the people they are, the memories, love and comfort and wishes — those are in the seams. stuffed. not the skin-change lining. continuous. comforting.)

i have FOUR blankets.

two duvets

YES

i know it because theyre wet and sticky and gross

my dace is hot.

if i put my head to the sheets,

he’s purring.

just realized everyone i love is going to die. my cat, my mom, my dad, my grandmother, my sister. my dog died and i don’t remember how her fur felt. how she barked.

its hard to breathe. im choking on my own mourning.

took an edible about it tho so.

it too will break when the morning comes,

but for now it stains the world in faux-aurora;

the plastic crinkles, the balloon deflates,

there is a clementine peel growing stiff and fragile on the desk,

its juices ferment,

then spoil.

the person that leaves is not the person that entered,

falling trees and floating stones,

but here, a breath is held,

in faux yellow light,

tasting like oranges.

i trail behind your heel,

trip and stumble and laugh it off easily,

my teeth are crooked through the smile.

seventeen hundred actions,

neurons flaring and muscles pulling,

the twitching of your diaphragm.

laugh with me!

(under a thousand worthless thoughts and actions,

do you believe i’m still there?)

sept 4, 2025

(the sway of feet and a fallen chair-)

we’re all a little haunted, aren’t we?

no matter how sweet it tastes going down,

how sweet it tastes going back up-

the oscillating pendulum of a grandfather clock;

here we go again.

(i think i’m healing.)

(or living.)

(is there a difference?)

(one, two, three,)

to breathe, but when

(four, five, six,)

you can only

(one, two, three)

exist this way,

(four, five, six)

you breathe in ash,

(hold, hold, hold)

more often than not.

(breathe out. breathe.)

you’ll destroy yourself,

(light.)

soon enough. for now,

(one, two, three,)

at least you’re alive.

(four, five, six.)

you still

(hold, hold, hold,)

have something left to burn.

(breathe.)

welcome to my life.

(your purr:

“yes, yes, i love you too.”)

“can i have another?”

i do not talk about the gaps in between my lungs,

or the empty spaces on the floor,

beside my bed and the couch and in the living room.

i do not need to say it, i know, she knows.

we live our grief like a secret.

“not yet,” she says,

“we loved her,”

“i think we loved her too much.”

(august 1, 2024)

(i loved her too, mother,)

but here i am.

i do not think i am meant to be so alone.

i fend it off my eating peaches at midnight,

slightly soft and slightly bruised,

cold.

they warm a little in my hands,

bite after bite,

after bite.

what remains is something small in my hands.

(a baby.)

i throw it in the trash,

wash my hands of it.

the memory of a peach is sweet,

can i bear another?

(august 1, 2024)

(i am sorry that i am here,

“my baby, my baby”

she was warm.

i can’t write the poetry. just look;

she was warm and cradled in blankets and breathed ever so slightly,

big brown-black eyes,

‘i love you,

i love you,

i love you.’

she was the best.

small and brown and gray,

cold in the air and silent amongst the grass.

i asked the little bird,

“has life hurt you as it has me?

do you remain here, as i do?”

if hope is such a thing with wings,

what does it mean to lay here in the grass?

to remain unflown,

not to live,

not to die?

have others told you to stay, little bird,

to not leap from the highest branch,

even as the sky arcs above you,

a promise?

have you stayed with selfish intent,

(yours or theirs?)

flown and not yet flown,

gone but not yet gone?

i like watching the passerbys, those by the lake, the library, the buildings. when they spot me, i wave. i love seeing them; i love it even more when they see me, even nestled in the branches, where they wouldn’t think to look. ‘surprise! here i am!’ like a little fruit in the trees.

i hope there is joy there.

i hope you find me.