Write from the shoulders. The throat. The hands.
My shoulders,
they bare a load
frail, but forced to hold
the weight of others
myself, too,
because vunerability is too much to bear.
My throat,
taut and tense
clenched in preparation for tears
littered with slashes,
papercut size
and yet still, my words are shared.
and too, these hands
they cradle pencils and blades alike,
flesh scattered with bruises
writing my story; in hopes it fixes
whatever is wrong with me.
faded ferry
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 3:34 PM UTC