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a child’s disclosure
i took notes around the corner
from the chainsaw’s roar,
while the lock was wrenched off
by its teeth.
and i wrote about the fear,
and the tears,
and the injustice of it all.
no safe space to call—
not home,
not him.
i watched puffy eyes,
matted hair,
tremors—
and i thought and thought.
but all i could do was take notes
around the corner
from the chainsaw’s roar,
while the lock was wrenched off
by its teeth.
sometimes i’m not put together. sometimes i’m not pretty. sometimes my words drip with the crudeness of bukowski and the bite of the primal woman beneath them. sometimes i’m broken and wheezing, or just hollow. as a poet, i won’t hide it. my writing follows me wherever i go. stoned, on a come down, in the thick of the healing and of the pain. i’m not palatable, no matter how you look at it. and that’s just too damn bad.
there’s an echoing in my bones telling me to
leave this place
and not return.
i can’t decide if it’s fear or fire.
my jaw clenches
and my teeth grit
and i can’t seem to stop the rope
from slipping, fraying.
my tether is escaping me
and is it fear or fire?
i need to know
before i decide.
do i leave this place?
this purpose and pay check?
do i slink away like a fox
in the night?
where’s the rope?
hello?
where’s the light?
hello?
can you hear me?
how could i kill the weeds
when i watch the bees frolick
among them?
i relapsed.
i smoked 🍃 for the first time since november of 2024.
everything got too much; the world swallowing me whole; my gut emptying to hollow; my heart beating frantically at the trapping of a vice.
so i succumbed to the relief. erased months of perseverance, strength, growth.
at least now I’ve got more to write about.
- the dangers of romanticising pain as a poet
plopped into cool water, my manus flattens against the stone below as a bowl upturns like a dome above.
my marble eyes ring with the warning of moonlight, my skin glistens, slick with sage-
i peer at my greenhouse, pads reaching to press the convex glass, curiosity caressing my face-
but comfort follows me beneath the water, serenity tying me back to stone.
then steam clouds the cage; lids close off sight, then sound- suddenly, silenced, i muster one last croak. poetrycommunity
death by comfort // the boiling frog
places i vape:
in public bathrooms
in airport corners
under my desk at work
beneath my hoodie
on mountaintops
on backyard chairs;
in my sleep, in my waking, in my dreams. beneath the clouds and the shadows. on the horizon and the stars and my aching soul.
(addiction presents as poetry, just ask bukowski)
to live without art is to live without breath.
my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.
the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.
i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.
i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.
i was going through boxes of books and old clothes when i found the scarf you lent me.
we were going to the football and it was cold and i didn’t bring a jacket, so you lent me your scarf- your favourite team scarf.
how is it possible for a scarf to claw its way into my chest and stop my heart from beating? it’s not? well, it’s happening. it’s possible.
i almost forgot what it was like to be 16, and to love my best friend with my whole heart- my best friend who secretly loved me a little too much;
i almost forgot what it was like at 18 to kiss you in the dead of night and dismiss you in the morning;
i almost forgot how entwined we once were, how many libraries i could fill with every story and aching that passed between us.
staring at your scarf, now dusted by 10 years, i can’t think of anything else.