poetry

sugar

sugar:

a spoonful, tapped

on the rim of the bowl

and tipped

into black tea;

stirred until dissolved

and thick on the back

of my throat.

sugar,

a drawl in

oppressive heat,

demeaning and drawn out

to intimidate–

I have all the time

in the world

to sip my tea

and contemplate

everything you never said

to me.

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poetry

you

you

hold my hand

over the table and

i trace freckles like they will

spell out

some way to reach

your heart.

the skin of your palm

is rough and cool and

your fingers

swallow mine;

skin the color of

hot cocoa before

it is stirred against

my own.

and I wish I could kiss

the bridge of your nose

and rest my chapped

lips on your brow,

but I am too scared

to say a word

so we leave as strangers

in faded pastels

on a muted backdrop

that we will both soon forget.

poetry

honey

honey,

I say,

is the only food

that will never

spoil.

they watch me

with no comprehension

and the bee moves

gently

along his fingers

in the afternoon

sun.

they do not understand

why this matters;

he tries to hand

the bee to me

but I flinch from

his outstretched palm–

too many strikes

 

from palms

of glass and

empty promises,

holding false gifts

that glint in

faded light.

we continue on

but honey

will never spoil

and my memories

someday

will.

poetry

sorry.

“how’ve you been?”

i don’t really know.

sorry.

“are you doing okay?”

no.

sorry.

“what’ve you been up to?”

worrying, picking my skin,

wishing i were dead,

skipping meals.

sorry.

“are you good?”

not really;

i’m generally a

pretty shitty

person.

sorry.

sorry that i couldn’t be

fine

and that i’m an inconvenience

and a burden.

i just want to

be alright and

instead i’m shutting down.

don’t ask me how i am

because i can’t lie

right now.

poetry

weekend

today is saturday,

another in a chain

of saturdays stretching on,

linked, pulling, fragile–

today is saturday,

but I am tired of it.

each second passes,

each minute, each

hour changes me

and I am afraid of the

thousands

of saturdays

I have yet to live.

who will I be when I wake up

tomorrow?

my saturdays are finite

but yours are limited

and we’ve never really

been able to breathe

together.