Macabre

Its red.

The rolling shards of glass

Crunched under my hands

Aged twenty porcelain, torn in twos and fours and tens

Priced ink shattered at the seams

Koi’s bleed, giving flowers life

Not so permanent after all

Numbness spreads, disconnecting

And all I see, all that matters is—

Its red.

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Word Prompt: speak

The air breaks. His vision blurs.

The world sharpens, then splits

from edge to edge until—

She speaks.

And the crash back into himself

is violent, but grounding.

Because he knows now.

This is a dream.

A deluded fantasy conjured from longing

for someone trapped behind wood and nails

six feet out of reach.

Random Scrawl

The first post of March is a random, dreary thing that came to mind sometime ago. Adore it. I believe I posted it on my Instagram, but I can’t be certain. Social media links are below for any of you that actually want to check if I did, haha. But otherwise, here it is.

Here’s to the new month.


How can you just forgive everything I’ve done?

When here I am—feeling like I profane the very ground I walk upon.

Is it really that easy to fall asleep?

Because I’ve been sitting here, angry and waiting to remember how to adore my own seams.

Do you think I’ll get tired eventually?

Of writing these awful things that make me question the light in me.