A Poem
From a girl that doesn't write poems.
The idea of writing poems has always scared me so I decided at some point that I shouldn’t write them. But for some reason this one spilled out of me back in October and every so often I come back to it (maybe whenever there’s a full moon). Sharing it as a way to break my own routines and rules. Sharing it today, before the temporary moons appear on my back again—erasing pain, leaving a mark.
May we point out what we see and feel, and know that one can exist without the other.
phases
i know this language is limited
we rearrange the same magnets
on the fridge,
learning to spell
casting a spell
and yet, someone wraps my feet
while whispering a joke
about dressing up as charlie chaplin
on halloween
echoing a voice across the divide
and a song waits for the full moon,
standing in the backyard
only after i catch a glimpse
of someone turning
to find it glowing behind them
and a suction cup leaves
all the phases on my back
big and bright
pulsing, beating
right over my shoulder
where do i land
when something lands on me?
there is only feeling,
trusting it’s there
behind bramble
and letters scrambled


“I grab my pen, but the ink is finished.” and “That’s the only salvation left for me.” It feels like an earnest admission
“we rearrange the same magnets / on the fridge, / learning to spell / casting a spell” feels playful and intimate