the earth here
sees you as a thief
an animal with teeth
they won't look underneath

but the little kid
does not care
How are you? Yes, you, right there.
he sees you as a friend
or a teacher maybe
with life lessons daily
he tamed you
and you tamed him
majestic you are
protecting you will

you are everyone at once
with the right balance

She blooms where grief forgets to sleep,
beneath the sallow hush of twilight trees—
a flare of red in softened ash,
the last confession of the breeze.

Petals curled like whispered sins,
each one a blade of memory—
a wound too pretty to regret,
too sacred to let bleed freely.

She doesn’t seek the sun like roses do.
No, she is the flame of parting steps—
ephemeral,
like the breath between
goodbye
    and
      gone.

Born of myth and muddy water,
they say she grows where spirits roam—
a guardian of thresholds,
the keeper of the in-between,
wearing sorrow like a crown
no one dares remove.

And still,
   she rises.
Not for life,
but to remind the world:
some things only bloom
      in farewell.

Anytime you call me
I will come to meet you
I will come.

She stretched her sleeves to cover them.
The knife cut deep on her scarred thighs.
I said I didn't mind that she hurt
Herself. Still, the hand covered the bruise.

She ate little. The mirror scoffed
Still. "Fine!" I'd say. "I'll eat alone."
I said I didn't mind that she starved
herself. Still, the hand covered the bruise.

I wish I pulled her hand.
I wish I didn't just speak.
Lately I can't eat too.
My hand covers the bruise.

the initial impact
the ruptured vessels
crying crimson
pooling up underneath the surface of your
fragile flesh
soft, breakable unlike the iron
that flows through you

then a swell
of black and blue
of violent violets
a nebula to remind you that you
                                                          are not invincible
                                                          are not invulnerable
                                                          will one day turn to dust,
a star of lost oxygen
tender to the touch

then the healing
a green gradation
yellowed edges
the swelling going down
the knowledge that nothing is permanent        

that even your bruises pale
even your blood decays
even the galaxy imprinted on your skin can explode, collapse,
lost infinitely in infinity

the knowledge that even as you are getting better,
you are fading like the bruise
that once stained your skin

My joints ache.
They are cold and still,
tired from lack of use.
My joints ache to hold you,
to enfold you into the
cracks between
my bones.
Between my bones there is

space

where you would fit.

My joints ache.
Hunching, they are
crude in contrast,
rough
in comparison to your own.

They creak and groan
as they act out this dance,
almost forgotten steps slow
to form.

My joints
ache.

I am broken.

there is nothing
beautiful about that.

brokenness is painful
and ugly and terrifying.

but no matter what,
I do not need you to
piece me back together.



yes, I am broken.

but I don't need
to be fixed.