**tw's: death, sui ideation**
to linger now / split spit bed & / lie
drenched in sweat, display / finger guns & drop down dead / a safe place to be / so what do we do with the leftover teeth? instead i run to places that have no names / &
i am born again each year, another revelation of skin deep; where
i will not allow myself to drift away. i will not allow myself to be expected
anywhere. anyway,
i am proud to be called a grave / a hole which gapes & grabs & does not let go /
& does not want to let go / a something which begs to be filled with warmth & / in turn renders you to bone
mass / reflections are all wrong / wrung out harrowed faces made to look loved & / small is nothing but that which entices the dirt / watch the washer work whimsically /
i watch the water pool in my belly button & drip down /
just to wish i could leak away / but i have hands that are all length & no hold / no strength & a mirror to call home / i live to close doors that never get locked / to see your bones; the dungeon's woodwork creak & i feel / i feel the same so / i say to you today:
it is okay to want to die / to want to be something somehow / everybody needs a grave / & i am so ready, always now.
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body work
Poetry**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
