she wrote on a stone
with her fingers,
dripping and wet with red paint
like she'd sacrificed her body to even write that
one simple, big thing.
we're born knowing
that promise, we accept that kind of bloodlust--
the one we carry to weight us down,
the one that can destroy us.
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