This is the hill I will die on.
I choose to stand on the high ground,
And fight in the war.

I will be bloodied.
Bruised.
Broken.

But I will not run to the safety,
In the home at the bottom.
I will not cry for mercy,
As you raise your blade above my bowed head.

I will stay.
I will empty your lungs of hot air,
And shove you over the edge.
I will watch your body lie at the bottom,
Pointed at gruesome angles.

For in your one-sided battle to knock me down,
I have turned the tide.
This place that I have chosen to rest
Is no longer my grave,
But yours.

He called me a star
But how can that be true?
My light is only there when I'm next to you

My dad calls my mom the moon
It's supposed to be romantic but to me he's a fool
The moon is a piece of rock
My mom is the whole world

He hold my hands
And tells me I'm the sun
I don't believe him
But it is true love

black spores on the mildewed walls
peeling over the wood
rot that even the vultures shun
it grows in cracks and in dark places.

the disease sticks its spiny fingers
down your throat, so you can’t
scream…
silence, silence, it wants
silence.
it wants
absence,
no self left to 𝘣𝘦.

outside, it has been night for years
babes born bawling, not knowing
what stars, moon, sky, sun used to
look like, nothing but the concrete
sea.

and yet, though Purity
has her headstone with the
rest, though there are no longer
prayers
to be blessed
there is good,
there is GOD in this
God-forsaken world,
there is GOOD
there is GOD—
you.