i think i may be the spider crawling across the page as i write — my human life is just something i dreamt in my web when i got tired of counting the hairs on my legs Advertisements
I’ve started growing a garden in my chest. I pulled out my heart, lungs, and diaphragm and replaced them with soil and fertilizer. Now I lay outside in the sun for eight hours a day; I’ve left my chest open for sunlight and watering, but it doesn’t feel so empty now that my body is filled […]
You’ve grown a garden in your palms Of Queen Anne’s Lace. Your fingers cradled flowers, curving over them, hiding them, but you gave your hands to me and invited my fingers to climb down your wrists and lay amongst the petals.
The tar grips my body with fierce but gentle hands. It slides over me, baptizing me, and I sink into it, opening my mouth, letting it fill my lungs and break my bones and eat my skin till there is nothing left of me but the energy of my soul.
She lit the votive candle on my windowsill and whispered a prayer and her lips disappeared into desert paths, soft, almost covered by sand, and I saw the sun rise in her eyes, golden and orange, and I reached into her chest to caress the petals of the marigolds that had bloomed there
I planted violets in their place, buried their seeds in the raw skin, fertalized them with poem scraps, watered them with beer — their roots are in my body, curling around my bones, replacing my veins — my skin is purple and green, petals and leaves, and I no longer know my name; I can […]
My father taught me how to make paper fall from my palms and between my fingers, how to print words in the wrinkles and creases, stories of the year hidden in invisible ink that only palm readers can see. Each time I rub my hands together the poems I thought about writing and the stories […]