All birds are dead.
There are no birds here.

as the women grind grain in their mortars
i kneel nearby.
watching them scrub the grain sand smooth
my organs feel too hot
burning hot
so hot and it hurts and
i want to perform harikari
just to let out the heat
just a quick slice across my belly
just to cool off my steaming intestines

my blankets are breathing
i pick my scab over and over
i pick my scab over and over
i pick my scab over and over
keep your eyes open

maybe we'll make these
it sounds like he's blooming

that sounds lovely

She's on the couch with her eyes open lips open legs open
She just kinda appeared

That's what we want of course

these are not Truths
-these inner workings- these vulnerable selves-
integrated with what is, was, might have been, will be, could be-
half the story is never even told-
she keeps on writing-