Compensated in words
paid in adoration
caged by inspiration
bound by chains of release
To be a muse is a full-time job
to be a poet is a curse.
Whisper the secret
show me how to remain
kissing the corners of your mouth
To be a muse is the labor of the gods
to stay a poet is a drought.
You think to breathe
you breathe to write
you write to make some sense
you hope that it will please her
When your demise is an appetite
the cure is to hunger.
22h ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 10:23 PM UTC
I have a degree in rug-pulling
For years and years, people come into my home and ask me how to properly pull a rug
how to make it drag smoothly across the hardwood floor
that no fibres get caught in the cracks.
My floor has nails
It has snags
And she has splinters
depending on the fabric and the force at which it is pulled
determines whether or not it will tear
Most people tear their rug to shreds their first time
I often hold my breath trying not to
It feels like a job I never get paid for
When it’s over, the house feels empty
Empty houses are lonely; you don’t always need a rug
Slide on the floor in your socks instead
like a figure skater that hasn’t adapted to the cold.
I have never decorated a room by myself
I just don’t have the eye for it.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 1:48 PM UTC
I've grown to despise sounds of television from another room
stories somewhere I cannot hear
unless I sit on the stairsteps
past my bedtime…
I sit in the dark
and imagine you called
I ate an entire plateful
just to sit in the dark
grasping for a word
Acquiescence for my father
interest for my mom
talking to my brother
praying to no god
I have worked my hands too hard
I have rotted from my core
I have been starving inside-out
I wish I loved myself enough to care
I wish you’d love me enough you didn’t.
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 9:16 PM UTC
Si je pourrait
Je te regarderais
jusqu’à mes yeux ont usé
Cela compenserait pour les temps j’ai passé
vivre ma vie avec mon dos tourné
Si je pourrait
Je t’embrasserais
jusqu’à mes poumons lâchent
Cela compenserait pour l’air j’ai gaspillé
Pleurer pour une autre femme
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 9:39 AM UTC
The day of the wedding
I sold my soul to purity.
Mannequins in a store window
adorned in their conformity.
The death of spring
before it began
The birth of February,
and many a kiss.
Glittering, flittering
memories I missed.
What started as whispers
took off in flight
Over my head–
out of my sight
Buried deep in my soul.
I give my sorrows
to return to that place.
Black wings, a funeral.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 11:10 PM UTC
