The body remembers hands like stories etched in a language of shame.
I hate my face.
I have shattered mirrors
just to gather pieces
of myself
he couldn't touch.
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Diary
I never learned the rules about meter or metaphor, or what not to say out loud. I just write what lives inside me: the bruises, the blossoms...
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Apologies to anyone here named Kevin. This one was directed at one Kevin in particular, not you. Dear Kevin, You are the dust and mildew pre...
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I remember your hand. How it moved like it had a right to anything it touched. You smiled, called it a game. And I was so young, I thought n...
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