writing as a way to take what is lost in apathy and exaggerate it back into emotional consciousness.
“I have spent the past year learning
how to swallow pieces of my heart,
and training it to beat again. It
doesn’t recognize the cage of my
ribs, instead there’s still nights that
I hear it longing for the war zone you
left it in. I’ve learned by now that the
wildfires weren’t romantic, but that
doesn’t mean it still won’t bleed for
something that beautiful. I saw the
whole sky turn gold and I thought it
was just for us. That was a mistake
and now I can’t look at smoke the
same way again. (See also: cherries /
strawberries / the color pink / spring /
birds / bad horoscopes / the ocean /
California) What I can still write about
is ghosts. And how they say more than
you ever did. Maybe that sounds like
the start of another love story gone
wrong, but it’s ours, and you know
I have claws where my hands should
be. I know we turned this whole thing
into a nightmare when we both had
such big dreams. There comes a time
when apologies don’t cut it anymore,
neither do excuses. All you’re left with
is the truth: When my heart finally
showed back up, I barely recognized it.
It was peeled over and I’m willing to bet
you’ve still got shreds of it under your
fingernails.”
“Womanhood
is learning how to witch yourself
in slow motion.
When they say your name
like a curse,
say it back to them
like an incantation.
When they call you cold,
show them how you conjure fire.”
“he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.”