Hubristic words in a blocked cavern
ricocheting off the rock walls.
The call is coming from inside the house,
and a detached part of me understands:
to delude myself is to survive the dark.
To feel sunlight breaching the cracks,
is to imagine myself honey-gilded.
To build castles of cards and imagine a draft,
is to orchestrate a prelude to collapse.
And still, my bones shiver me tender.
And still, I laugh with my whole chest.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
