As a frog—
or so I claim—
I hopped toward ponds
that spoke my name.
I sought the frogs
who laughed and played,
but when I smiled,
their joy would fade.
For when I flashed
my toothy grin,
the frogs all jumped—
they pulled me in…
then pushed me out,
then barred the way:
“You are not a frog.
You cannot stay.”
“You’re no such frog,
can you not see?”
“I am a frog—
it must be me!”
“Your voice is sharp,
your shadow long.”
“I am a frog.
What have I done wrong?”
“Can you not see
you’re far too tall?
Too rough, too wild,
too wrong for all.
Too hairy, heavy,
beast and big—
You look much more
like wolf than twig.”
But I replied,
with trembling call:
“Can you not see?
I’m frog, not all.
I’m small, I’m slick,
I’m soft, I’m green—
The truest frog
you’ve ever seen.”
They turned away.
The pond grew still.
And I stood there—
a frog by will,
a wolf by sight,
alone between
the self I felt
and what they’d seen.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 2:48 PM UTC
I pack it in slowly,
as if going any slower
would make the sun shine less bright.
Would the leaves stop rustling
in my ear?
I can’t walk up the stairs
because my legs are too light—
so heavy that I can’t tell
if they’re there or not.
I stand there clueless,
wondering what to do with my feet.
A knock at the door keeps me awake,
but only for a minute.
There are others trying to talk to me,
like I wasn’t already listening.
Well, what are you going to do—
just stand there?
Like it hasn’t asked you
the same question
2,372 times.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 3:34 PM UTC
I saw a **** skater
With cargo all around,
And bleeding black laces
That barely touched the ground.
I moved with her intention
And kept that girl in mind.
I really **** at skating,
And she left me behind.
Flips and kicks and spins
Pulled me further in,
As my eyes began to grin
And the song started to begin.
Woah, she’s really moving—
I think it’s really hot.
But deep, deep down inside,
It’s more than just a lot.
More than eyes can see,
More than could be me.
So when I rock
Or fall
Or stop,
She’ll zoom right past me,
And I’ll be chasing
What I can’t quite be.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 3:37 PM UTC
I wake up with my eyes already open.
The dark is close enough to have a pulse.
Something large has leaned over me,
not touching, just counting my breaths.
I close my eyes.
That seems to please it.
When I wake again, the room has softened.
Corners bend inward.
The air tastes like it has been used before.
I realize I am lying on a tongue,
though nothing has bitten me yet.
The thing holding me is patient,
the way a question is patient.
I sleep. I wake.
Each time, there is less distance
between me and the idea of being kept.
The walls listen.
The ceiling lowers its voice.
I am surrounded by a mouth
that has decided I belong to the sentence.
I wake again.
The dark moves when I think.
Something curious shifts its weight around my ribs,
learning where I resist.
I am not afraid anymore—
fear requires exits.
By the final waking,
morning has already happened without me.
There is no edge to find,
no opening left to misinterpret as hope.
I am held in a place
where night stores what it wants to remember.
The creature does not sleep.
It simply finishes.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 11:16 AM UTC
I unlatched the bars
That held my skin
I dove my hand
Straight on in
I scratched a pulled,
almost bit—
The inside of my brain
which was the pit.
The relief was instant,
Enough to curse,
Good enough to assume the worst
The pain was cracked
Mind-numblingly dull
And splitting most
Of my whole skull.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 11:14 AM UTC
My arms slide off like loose sleeves,
my legs detach with the groan of rotten hinges.
I sit in the corner, needle between my teeth,
stitching frantic crosses into skin that unravels
before the thread even knots.
I’ve tried glue,
thick, chemical stench choking my lungs.
but the seams peel back
as if my body rejects permanence.
Tape curls at the edges,
flimsy as the promises I make to myself:
you will stay, you will hold.
Each night I gather my pieces,
a scavenger of my own anatomy,
picking bones off the floor like dropped utensils,
wiping blood from the tiles with trembling hands.
I whisper apologies to every limb,
but they do not listen.
They want freedom.
They want distance from me.
I wake to my fingers littered across the sheets,
my jaw askew,
my ribs sliding down my chest like broken shutters.
I hammer them back in with shaking fists,
but the body is stubborn,
a house that refuses its owner.
And still
I sew, I glue, I tape, I bind,
begging the carcass to remember me.
But the more I plead,
the quicker it falls.
Until I am a pile,
a scattered hymn of parts,
a chorus of silence laid out on the floor,
and the echo in the room is laughing,
because nothing wants to stay with me
not even my own skin.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 2:43 PM UTC
The fog doesn’t end.
It negotiates.
It thins where I stand,
as if perception itself has limits,
as if seeing is a privilege earned
by staying alive long enough.
I am not well.
I am not lost.
I am something unnamed,
paused between versions of myself
that haven’t learned how to speak yet.
The future does not arrive—
it exerts pressure.
A low, atmospheric force
that changes the body
before it changes the view.
I feel it in the ribs,
the way air becomes deliberate,
as though existence now requires consent
with every breath taken carefully.
What waits ahead is not clarity
but orientation:
the subtle agreement between mind and world
that something continues
even when it cannot be outlined.
This is not hope.
Hope is too loud.
This is the moment before belief,
when the self is no longer collapsing
but hasn’t forgiven itself for surviving.
I remain here,
not because I see where I’m going,
but because the fog no longer convinces me
there is nothing beyond it.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 2:29 PM UTC
In the beginning
there was no ground beneath my feet,
only thresholds.
I was given the body of a child
so that fear would fit inside me.
Night came
not as darkness
but as order.
And with it,
the man.
He did not knock.
He did not ask.
He touched the lamp,
and the room obeyed.
Light was made,
but it was not good.
He laid a covering over me,
cold as prophecy,
measured as law.
I trembled,
for I did not know
whether he was messenger or sentence.
Beside me,
another body slept—
eyes closed to revelation,
mouth faithful only to breath.
The man spoke,
but I sealed my ears
as one seals a tomb.
Then he was taken from me.
And in his absence
a figure rose at the edge of distance—
white as bone,
tall as judgment,
faceless as truth before language.
I lifted my hands
and captured it
the way men capture miracles
to prove they existed.
The creature weakened
when seen.
I sent the image
to the one who made my name.
Her voice descended without mercy:
There is nothing here.
You are inventing the world.
I did not open her words.
Some scriptures are written
to erase.
Then the waters parted.
Not to save,
but to keep.
A beast moved beneath the surface,
older than prayer,
patient as cruelty.
It swallowed
without finishing the act.
Each day
I learned how far a soul can swim
without being free.
After the waters,
cloth was raised into a tent.
Inside,
a woman bent toward the invisible,
hands folded around silence.
A man approached her.
I placed my hand in the air
and the air listened.
We stepped back.
We waited.
The prayer was allowed to complete itself.
And it was the first time
nothing sacred was touched.
Then I understood:
The monsters are loud
because they are simple.
The men are quiet
because they are real.
The world does not end in fire,
nor in flood,
nor in trumpet.
It ends
when someone turns on the lamp
beside your bed
and you do not know
whether to call it light
or warning.
And I remained
between places—
not lost,
not chosen,
not redeemed.
Only awake
in a creation
that never asked
to be believed.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 2:22 PM UTC