my hands

Sometimes I hold my own hands and they feel so small tiny as an infant's so tiny and so fragile And yet they feel so old so ancient full of deep secrets and unspoken fears slender bones of unknowable strength covered in a fine veil of such vulnerable flesh These hands have penned many words … Continue reading my hands

they call it awakening

the breakup breaks down to a breakthrough of breaking the uprising is an upswelling of your uppermost limits an implosion of explosion shrinking in and tearing out a voice swallowing itself while screaming a vessel catching it's own spilling they call it awakening: the fine edge of death and new beginnings