A blackhole opened in my dad's car,
close to where my brother napped.
It sucked me in right after the Austrian border
and asked: where does the guilt come from?
From remembering you're not well?
The star is dying.
I watched myself in the rearview mirror,
sunbeam face, empty wardrobe eyes.
A shell stuck between pepper dulse and wanting.
Will they miss me when I'm gone?
The calm in my marrow
spoke in muted bursts of fireworks.
I was born for explosions
and trying to be less.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery / 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
Poetry❝The calm in my marrow spoke in muted bursts of fireworks. I was born for explosions and trying to be less.❞ Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. Th...
