I gave birth to my mother
when I heard myself
tell my father
that he didn’t hold me
the way I needed him to.
Bloody remnants
remain,
they stain
the surfaces of things.
I gave birth to my mother
when I heard myself
tell my father
that he didn’t hold me
the way I needed him to.
Bloody remnants
remain,
they stain
the surfaces of things.
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
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
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