What Gods do you believe in? I'll build you a temple of mirrors so you can see them.
Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don't you dare let go of my hand!
Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.
The trauma said, โDonโt write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
To think, a sweater, is made entirely of knots. My stomach could clothe a village.
she's wondering how many women are walking around this world feeling the tingling of their amputated wings remembering what it was to fly to sing