Poetry

Pressed on the track he is tense as the bicep holding my phone while I’m held by ripples of poly-cotton,

they shout in my yard at five a.m. when all I need is one night’s rest.

More than anything else, he is just. Annoying. 

I didn’t want to reveal this to my therapist because it’s one of the few times she gets to break confidentiality.

(“I am bad,” “No one can be trusted,” ‘The world is completely dangerous,” “My whole nervous system is permanently ruined”).

i cannot make my mother love me. this is a heavy thing to carry.

How do I describe how I feel to you when I don’t have any words left