top of page

all she does

is write little books,

is what I heard the husband of a friend say once.

that's all she does, all day he said and she laughed

and I nodded and felt my shoulders sink and remembered her laugh

as I sat on the floor, or at tiny desks,

writing on a broken laptop while three children under seven

tugged at my hair and begged me to play and feed, all day, every day

while my husband worked away.

all I do is write little books, I smiled and politely agreed,

and reminded myself and others that this little cozy hobby

was really such a luxury as I dealt with a fallen mind and lost babies

and feeling isolated in a country that

amplified what it really was, to feel utterly lonely.

I washed my hands of these comments

as often as I washed my children's beautiful faces

starting fresh every single time, wishing I could tell people

these little books are all I have, they are all mine

they keep me company at night when I feel I've lost everything

and maybe I'm even running out of time

and my fingers curl around my pen, as I imagine the cozy couples

smiling with bright white teeth that turn into fangs at night

you're right, I smile back, my fist curled tight.

Be careful what I'll write.

7 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

of me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b

Bring in your dead, she said. So I dragged my lovers out of the warm cocoons of my sheets out through my crooked legs and my sweat-soaked arms and watched as they clutched not at the bed, but at their

acts of rebellion saying I love you but quietly, in a crowd listening instead of waiting to speak not now, mouth, shhhh not so loud leaving a space for anyone who needs it holding space for someone's

bottom of page