Twist ties, tied around my tongue
like winter solace and its cold shackles
pressing against the bareness of my back.
Blindfolded, but my hand is pressed
down on my eyes, too. I like to make my own
darkness.
Grasping at the first dawn of breath,
and it's a mess. I can't see it any other way.
I'm not you, I'm not special.
Doubtful waves pulled by the lunar
nodes of my past ambitions.
So far removed, and unsure if this will even
make it.
Bleakness, like my face
squished on the cold window, staring down into the snow
covered streets. It's sort of...
my first time.
YOU ARE READING
TO FAIL SO FLAWLESSLY
PoetryEDITS IN PROGRESS: A prose-poetry chapbook exploring themes of insecurity, doubt, lost fabrics, and what it means to fail so flawlessly.
