My bedroom was so large,
and I was so small.

Cleaning it was such a task,
when organization
was so new, a nascent skill.

I didn't know then,
but I might have had a brother,
and our family was too poor.
Once, Mom was late, and
exercised her reproductive rights.
But afterwards, Dad
wondered aloud
if it was the right thing.

Bad timing.

And she hated him for two years,

starting here.

And when she found me in a pile of toys,
having failed at my singular task,
I can only imagine

   what she must have been thinking,
   when she took hold of my wrists,
   and suddenly the world spun

      the walls a kaleidoscope

a wail tore forth from her lungs,
a sound I'd never heard.

   And -- for a moment --
   I was flying

      a moment of weightlessness

      the moment she let go of my wrists

      the moment my spine hit the bedframe

      the moment all the breath exited my body

      the moment of silence in the wake

Never had she done such a thing.

      The moment the shockwave hit --

the moment my cry was truncated
with a "Shut up!"
And she could never admit that it happened.

It hurt her too much to know
that it did. I learned

that empathy is
a cross to bear, that some words
twist the knife
in someone else's skin.

I sit alone
In wild abandon
I see through walls
that aren’t there
Paint pictures of darkness
in my mind
I fear not the lonely streets
My heart hardened
by lifetimes of deceit
While birds chirp
outside the morning window
Rabid broken dreams
infect my every step
Sidewalks bow
before my feet
While christ bleeds
from a twisted cross
above my bed
Moons of suffering
Children of dread
hang from threads
And the minstrel at the gate
Says nothing at all
Some wounds never heal
Sometimes the healing never ends
And grey skies bend
down toward the sea

I didn’t text you.
I just stared at the message box
until the words pooled like ***** rainwater.
Left it open all night.
That’s not the same thing as wanting you.

I didn’t reach out.
Just opened your last text
like a window in winter
and stood in the draft,
hoping the cold might say something
you wouldn’t.

I didn’t dream of you.
Just lay awake with my hands crossed on my chest
like I was practicing
being the kind of dead you’d miss.

Tonight, I’m romanticizing survival:
eating cold tortellini with a fork I found in my car,
wearing a dress that smells like gin
and someone else’s cologne.

The moon’s out
like it wants to get punched.
The stars are just freckles on a drunk god’s face.
They’re blinking like they’ve seen this before.
The night air slips in where I didn’t shut the door.

I’m not waiting.
But if you called right now,
I’d answer from
the cold part of my bed
and pretend it was a coincidence.

And if you asked what I’ve been up to,
I’d lie with my whole face.
Say, “You?”
like I didn’t write this
with the window still open.

ive been spinning mysteries and fiction in my mind
from a spool of fabric weaved from an abundance of time
we begin to hit the cabbage and again i can see magic-
it's clear that while i had it, it's become no longer mine

--frantic--

spending my last dime and nickels on wealth never trickled,
this battle never-ending grows clearer, yet still riddled
you may encounter the drug of comfort
                                                        c­onsume it or even pack it
but in a world of no profits, i am the hand behind this racket

im the don, im the boss, the last say and the final face
that you will ever see, and that nobody will ever place
you may dream with Morpheus and live for others to hear it
but i am the father of the sleep, the Hypnos for your spirit
i will claim you with the tides of rest sent by mother
and it will feel no different than the death known by no other
do not mistake our time together for numbing or slumber, for
i am keeping you here, ever awake, yet under my cover

~you are safe here with me~

Winter begins not with snow,
but with the silence before it—
that strange pause
when even the wind forgets its name,
and the sky holds its breath
like it’s waiting to see who you’ll become
when everything else is stripped away.

I step into the cold,
and it feels like stepping out of memory.
No past.
Just breath and bone,
cracking in the stillness.

Nothing lies in winter—
it simply covers.
A kind of mercy, maybe.
A kind of dare.

Under the frost,
things don’t disappear.
They hold their shape
quietly,
aching to be misunderstood.
Just like me.

This season doesn’t decorate.
It reveals.
The trees forget how to pretend.
The ground stops performing softness.
Even the light arrives with sharp edges.
I see myself more clearly
when everything else withdraws.

I have mistaken warmth for truth.
For love.
For permanence.
But there is a clarity in cold
that no fire has ever given me.

Some days I feel like a lake beneath ice—
still, but only on the surface.
Underneath: movement.
Old things.
Unspoken.
Refusing to freeze all the way through.

I carry myself through these white hours
without language,
only instinct.
Only the weight of breath in my chest,
reminding me
that survival is not the same as stillness.

And if identity lives anywhere—
it lives here.
In the bones of trees.
In the hush after snowfall.
In the refusal to bloom
just because someone else is tired of waiting.

I do not need to thaw
to be real.