Write from the shoulders. The throat. The hands.
the shoulders, yes, they carry the weight of days and my heavy cotton bags to tell you the truth
each day
they are surprised by the dying of light
sometimes they startle cause the tide of blood is too high
I suspect a flame died in my throat cause I swallowed too much of their shadows
those shadows that swallowed my name
the hands are profound creatures, they act as if they asked: where have you been?
yet they know better, they know all too well how they get mad on your skin
tiny badger
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 4:18 PM UTC