I am now a natural gem,
A mix of murk and clear,
Different colors or shades.

I am now a healed piece of earth,
A patch of glow over the ashes of disease,
Diverse as I breathe in fresh air.

Yes, there must have been some devilish prophecy
Spoken on the day that you ascended from the embers
The day the stars were misaligned
Off kilter and yearning to return to virtue

Because threaded into the fabric of you was a venomous wound
And it bleeds and it bleeds it and bleeds
And you thrash and curse and wail into the nothingness
And we both know that even the nothingness pities you now

Living Sadness in a world that doesn’t stop moving,
Just because you’re sad

Forgiveness on the tip of the tongue

The strange intimacy of unspoken truths
Of sacred silence
Of quiet, forbidden longing  

The mad unfurling of a blueish love-
A love somewhere between earth and sky
Friend and Foe
Flame and ash and all that burns

Folding a corner
Turning a page
Finishing a book
Keeping it on the shelf
Forever,  
Even if just for the memory

These are the things,
The things that make me think of you.

The white quarter socks with pink flowers in the bottom corner of my dresser (grey now)
The brown rope hammock at the Botanical Gardens
College dorms
April
Blue light glasses
UPS Trucks (and whatever they’re carrying)
Dark flannels
Pink and navy and gold (and cinderblock walls)
Magic mushrooms
The bridge halfway down at Max Patch (the beginning of the end)
Electric bills (in summer time heat)
Harry Potter
Halloween
Scoreboards (and their keepers)
Psychics in Manhattan  
Cheap water bottles
Linguists
Architects
Couch ***
Vans (the sneakers)
Personality tests
Long, natural nails
Duffle bags
Biscuits at sunrise

Living Sadness in a world that doesn’t stop moving,
Just because you’re sad

Forgiveness on the tip of the tongue

The strange intimacy of unspoken truths
Of sacred silence
Of quiet, forbidden longing  

The mad unfurling of a blueish love-
A love somewhere between earth and sky
Friend and Foe
Flame and ash and all that burns

Folding a corner
Turning a page
Finishing a book
Keeping it on the shelf
Forever,  
Even if just for the memory

These are the things,
The things that make me think of you.

i’m a woman born where the hills roll like old records,
where the dirt’s thick with stories and the air tastes like whiskey and wildflowers.

the mountains bleed black tar, poison dripping into creek beds,
and the government’s promises stink like rotting meat in a locked fridge.
but the women, ******* — they keep moving.
sideways, under, through the cracks in the system.

they’re not saints or martyrs — just survivors with sharp teeth,
ready to bite through the *******,
ready to carve out their own **** place
in the raw, relentless hills they call home.