62 4 4
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I write my new poem in the gardenBut not like Mary OliverMore like meDirt under my fingernailsReal dirtI can feel the grit of it Something that shouldn't be thereBut is.
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8034
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My heart raced. I couldn't swallow. Heat rose under my skin, sharp and disorienting. I wanted to disappear—to fold inward, to dissolve—but instead of leaving, I walked toward him.
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7522
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That there are a downstairs, and high voices.
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2800
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The thing feels your feelings for you. You let it do this because it's easier than being different. Do you remember when you used to crave having wacky cartoon-like adventures? This is a stolen canvas or a door between crossed branches. Even…
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