Thursday, February 26, 2026

incidental

I dream of days beyond myself and love and clothes that never fit. I am the spear and I am the scar and I am incidental.

Tuesday, February 24, 2026

seeing myself

someone else takes the reigns to lead me through another puzzle in the bardo. I follow their tracks as best I can: reaching in the dark, trying to hide healthily. they cover my mirrors with paper and tape. I wash my face and think about drawing a smile.

Sunday, February 22, 2026

the sunrise and my innocence

when I was where I was

I was who I am without knowing

the not knowing was peaceful and quiet

like the house before I left for school in the last couple of years

sixteen and seventeen

catching the bus before anyone else's alarm

in winter some mornings were dark

I would first see the sun through the bus window

I would listen to music and close my eyes and the sun

would kiss me softly through the glass

my cheek was warm

and I could be where I was

closed in myself beside strangers forever

between here and there

not needing or knowing any better

or wanting more than the bus to keep going

to stay in the sunrise and my innocence for good.



Thursday, February 12, 2026

my science fiction

the illusion falters and we find that we were never in control. so many silly choices between desire and laundry - plenty more to fuel my science fiction. the crowds follow tramlines and the clouds roll thick and heavy. I watch my dreams on the horizon fall yet a little further out of reach. maybe they’ll come back tomorrow. maybe I’ll be ready then.

Monday, February 9, 2026

another sentence

I remember something more than now: waking up to lightness and feeling less unwilling. hope. a new day was a chance before it was a sentence. maybe it can be that way again.

Saturday, February 7, 2026

another bridge

let the phone ring out. I am trying to remember how to build words for thoughts to land on. they all pass like water now. maybe all we need is another bridge to fall to make a dam.

Wednesday, February 4, 2026

unfinished in the library

my brain is not my friend again. we’re both fed up with one another, close encounters in such close quarters for too long. I leave thoughts unfinished in the library to lie under a tree.

when I close my eyes I could be sleeping. when I sleep I’m only fractured dreams from waking up.