Poetry

when the house is quiet, when your mind wanders, when your mind whispers

loved not be loved not be loved

A Poetry Found in the Chest of A Dead Soldier

If I keep your poetry, / And I'm killed, / Will I be buried with it?

Call It What It Is

at fifteen the intake nurse clacked her nails until / social phobia, ED-NOS appeared beside diagnosis

Goldfish

Living is like a turtle shell growing around a plastic bag

spring

in an ancestral language i never learnt

Doctor Storm

I am here because I can’t sleep when it’s dark, / maybe in an hour I will be tired.

Exposition

I survived a knife between my ribs, / strings cutting into sponge-berry flesh, / blooming rose wound around my wrists.