- 1 min read

on Sundays

I worship the brown girl

who sits next to me on the subway,

waiting patiently

her eyes scanning the painted metal walls

and broken windows

for her hope

to be seen. To be seen, just for a minute.

I miss my stop

because of her,

because I want to be reminded

for five more minutes

that the world

is hers too.

I want to give her that,

and we don't need churches

for those prayers.

Recent Posts

See All

she takes pieces

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

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

Valentines Day

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