poetry

here, the woman says, drink this . she is holding a mug in her old tired hands; knuckles like tree knobs

I don’t think we ever stop wanting to be loved by the ones who created us. There had to be a little love there in

I want to write about the way you touched me and made love to me, but I don’t because

I hope you stop standing in places where you can no longer grow. I hope

maybe I should make coffee instead

I led you to the water

stepping over the worn down path

my first kiss was my brother’s best friend but he was also mine

he and I were in a spiral staircase in a turret, like a castle, but they called it a tabernacle

it later caught fire

think of your healing as a seed; you’re pushed into the dirt and everything is dark for a while. some days you feel like you’re

I hope your love grows as your flowers do
that you never leave them wondering if you love their tired wilted petals

Today my head was full of weeds

dry and dusty thirsty things