drunk

drunk, drunker than you could ever make me,

that’s what I am now.

a mess of colours,

siphoning my sorrow away.

Hopping The Turnstile

sheet metal bent backwards like contortionists in the circus trade the third avenue subway tricks my feet into floating tunnelling under...

Jun 21, 20251 min read

like clay might hang when suspended by your ire sliced by two wires the wooden handle returns to the same place after you've cut through me

Jun 1, 20251 min read

Feathered wings, curl around me. Cradle my cotton skin So tightly in your bassinet, That no harm will ever come to me; Not again. Feed...

Mar 18, 20251 min read